


-.i1 ■. 










ClassJ?.S2. 



Book I J^^ 

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Copyright l»j?. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



POEMS OF SOPHIE JEWETT 



BY SOPHIE JEWETT 



GOD'S TROUBADOUR. The Story 
of Saint Francis of Assisi 

8vo, cloth. By mail. $137 

POEMS. Memorial Edition 

1 2 mo, cloth. By mail, $1.37 

THE PEARL 

Student's Edition 

l6mo, cloth. By mail, 45 cents 
Holiday Edition 

l2mo, cloth. By mail, $1.10 



THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 



THE POEMS OF 
SOPHIE JEWETT 



u 



MEMORIAL EDITION 






NEW YORK 
THOMAS V. CROWELL & CO. 

PUBLISHERS 






Copyright, 1910, 
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 



Published December, 19 10. 



« ( 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 



©CI.A278i?6 



J BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 

1^* ^ i ^HE poetry of Sophie Jewett is too wide 
(X,' jL in its appeal to need interpretation 

r through biography; and one would turn in 
vain to the poems for a story of her life. 
'^ Yet those who have felt the sway of her art 
may well wish for a knowledge of her life 
in its personal relations and surroundings; 
and much of her own experience lies half- 
hidden in the poems. The "little fountain 
in the park" sings its "summer song" before 
her girlhood home; in her "coign of vantage" 
whence "wheatfield and pasture stretch in 
sight" she spent many August hours; White 
Head rises sheer from the waters of Casco Bay 
on which she used to sail; and she heard "the 
least of carols" among the "undrifted snows" 
. of the Wellesley meadows. 

Miss Jewett was born June 3, 1861, in 
Moravia, a little town in the hilly lake coun- 
try of central New York. Among the found- 
ers of this village ip early pioneer days were 
her grandfather, Deacon Josiah Jewett, and 
her great-grandfather, Cotton Skinner, whose 
daughter Sophia became the wife of Deacon 
Jewett. The family are of old New England 



[vil 

stock, descendants of Joseph Jewett who, 
with two uncles, came to this country in 
1638 and settled in Rowley, Massachusetts. 
Her father, Dr. Charles Carroll Jewett, married 
Ellen Ransom Burroughs, daughter of John S. 
Ransom of Salem, Connecticut, and adopted 
daughter of an uncle, Daniel Burroughs of 
Buffalo, New York. 

The family homestead, then known as 
"Grey Cottage," lies in a spot of unusual 
beauty, between orchard and garden, at the 
foot of "West Hill." Miss Jewett's earliest 
years were spent in this paradise for children, 
and the vivid pleasure in earth and sky, in 
woods and water, in bird notes and in growing 
things, which permeates her poetry, had its 
root in the outdoor delights of her childhood. 
Her father's practice as a country physician ex- 
tended over roads which climb and dip among 
the hills, and on any long drive one of the chil- 
dren usually bore him company, often this little 
daughter. The children had a wide playground, 
although its limits were clearly defined by the 
tall old walnut tree at the end of the lane, 
the great chestnut on the hillside, and the 
hedge about the garden. In this old-fashioned 
garden they made dolls of daffodils, poppies, 
or pine-tassels; and, indeed, they here found 
nearly all their playthings from the time of 
crocuses until the bright leaves fell. The world 



[vli] 

as they knew it was bounded by the circling 
line of hills against the sky, a great world and 
old, where things had happened long ago, 
"when" as the wondering child used to say, 
"I was a little thread of dust." When the 
oldest of the three sisters began to study 
geography the two younger ones laid out the 
entire universe according to her instructions 
with perfect satisfaction to themselves. One 
of their plays was to journey to "the very 
outside edge of the world," and to climb the 
hedge which shut it in; on the world side 
were green grass and flowers and sunshine, on 
the outside darkness and tan bark — an image 
of desolation suggested by a tan yard near 
the village, the only spot in that fertile valley 
where nothing could grow. The little poet, 
the youngest of the three, more than half 
believed in this and could see the picture 
clearly in after years. Bedtime was marked 
by the fireflies in the garden or the crows 
wheeling about the top of the giant elm in 
the meadow, "that hour when birds leave 
song and children pray." 

Sorrow came early to this home, and Dr. 
Jewett, feeling life slipping from him while 
his children were very young, took every care 
to impress upon them not only high ideals 
of conduct for their future guidance, but also 
the value and the beauty of intellectual pur- 



I viii ] 

suits, holding up as a model to his little daugh- 
ters, after she was gone, their lovely and gifted 
young mother. 

Miss Jewett's parents remained always real 
presences in her life and in the lives of those 
nearest to her; and the culture, the courtesy, 
the courage, and the devoutness of the parents 
bore fruit in the life of the daughter. After 
the death of Dr. Jewett, Buffalo became the 
home of his children, three daughters and 
a son. Miss Jewett's later childhood and girl- 
hood were spent there, and there, in the home 
of her brother, she died, October ii, 1909, 
after a few weeks of illness. 

In early girlhood she already showed an 
alert mind and an eager desire for knowledge, 
a desire which in no way interfered with her 
enjoyment of lively diversions. Chief among 
her teachers in school days was Mrs. Eliza- 
beth A. Forbes, for many years preceptress 
of the Buffalo Seminary. Much inspiration 
and counsel came to her from her minister, 
Dr. Wolcott Calkins, whose home in Buffalo, 
and later in Newton, Massachusetts, she called 
her "second home." She was the constant 
comrade of his daughter from the time they 
met as little girls, and their companioning 
became a lifelong friendship. In the min- 
ister's study the two children discussed grave 
mysteries or bent together over books in 



[ix] 

strange tongues, though ever ready to be lured 
from the deep window seat to range the house 
or to climb the church belfry. At home she 
found delight in the poets, and essayists, and 
historians of her father's library, old books 
that stood on her shelves to the end. During 
several years, in which she was not allowed to 
use her eyes, the oldest sister made a practice 
of reading aloud to her. The education thus 
begun was throughout life gained for the most 
part directly from books; in later years, from 
the great libraries of London and Oxford, 
Florence and Rome and Boston. Like a gen- 
eral she planned her own campaigns of the 
mind, and brought into her scholarship an in- 
dividuality that does not belong to the wholly 
school-made product. 

The friends of her girlhood she steadfastly 
cherished when time brought the separations 
constraining them " to go diverging ways." 
She was little more than twenty when first she 
journeyed to England and Italy, an experi- 
ence which gave new incentive to study and 
filled her beauty-loving soul with new visions. 
Many summers and two whole years she spent 
in study and travel, the companion almost al- 
ways of her artist sister. Her intimate knowl- 
edge of Italian art, history, and literature was 
nurtured by these sojourns in Italy, and many 
poems as well as all the prose writings of 



[x] 

the last ten years enshrine the country which 
she loved. Chief of these prose writings is 
"God's Troubadour," published in book form 
in 1910, the story of Saint Francis, told for 
children, in which the Little Poor Man lives his 
life before us from his boyhood when he sings 
"gay songs of love and war" to the day when 
he dies, "worn and weak" yet "happy and 
high-hearted." Notable among the shorter 
papers are "The Lover of Trees in Italy," 
published in 1903, in Scribner's Magazine, and 
a sketch, "The Land of Lady Poverty," which 
appeared in The Outlook in 1905. 

In 1889, already a poet of distinct promise, 
Miss Jewett came to Wellesley College as 
instructor in English Literature, and in 1897 
she was appointed associate professor. Be- 
sides a course, carried for many years, in the 
general history of English Literature, she 
taught courses in Spenser, in the history and 
structure of the ballad, and in the poetry of 
the fourteenth and of the nineteenth cen- 
turies. She concentrated her attention, in 
the later years, on the three lines of work last 
named; for, lover of modern poetry as she was, 
she still firmly maintained the necessity of a 
close knowledge of our early language and 
literature. Her teaching was that of the critic 
who is also the creator, of the scholar who is 
also the artist. Her knowledge was both wide 



[xi] 

and detailed, and her passion for truth made 
her insistent in her search for fact and inexor- 
able in her demand for accuracy. Thus, she 
would spend many hours of many days over 
one line of a ballad in a forgotten dialect, and 
would move heaven and earth to discover the 
force of an obscure word-ending. In the study 
of the poets of reflection, particularly those 
of the nineteenth century, she discussed with 
her students the great problems of thought 
and of life, with an understanding and an 
insight bred of her philosophical reading and 
of her own thinking. And always her teaching 
was a revelation of beauty and a training in the 
art of opening eye and ear. A true and vivid 
impression of her is given in the words of one 
of her students, now herself an instructor in 
literature: "In the teaching of poetry Miss 
Jewett was consummate. Her profound and 
eager scholarship was unimpeachable. It was 
because her facts were so sure a foundation 
. . . that she was able to build for us a super- 
structure at once so fair and so enduring. 
Yet we were never permitted to mistake . . . 
the history for the poetry. I shall never for- 
get the gem-like radiance of 'The Pearl' as 
that precious poem revealed shapes and hues 
of beauty through her reading. . . . Miss 
Jewett taught poetry more poetically than any 
one else I ever knew." 



[xil] 

She threw herself with enthusiasm into the 
give-and-take of class discussion, and had an 
ardent pleasure in the work of her students, 
spending herself with lavish generosity on indi- 
viduals. Yet she felt keenly the discourage- 
ments of teaching. "It is quite impossible" 
she said, "to fulfil one's human and professional 
obligations even in a little world like mine.'* 
She was vitally interested in her courses, and 
devotedly loyal to department and to college; 
and she drew courage, inspiration, and hap- 
piness from the companionship of her fellow- 
workers who were also her close friends. Of 
her radiant hospitality, in these years of her 
Wellesley life, many might bear witness: the 
nuthatches and squirrels for whom she kept 
open house at her window, the students to 
whom, by her wood fire, she read Celtic lyrics 
or Sicilian ballads or the prose of Pater, and the 
guests who were stirred and quickened by the 
conversation, grave and gay, of her dinner-table. 

The literary fruits of Miss Jewett's teaching, 
in addition to two detailed bibliographical and 
topical Outlines for the use, primarily, of her 
classes, are three: first, a critical edition, pub- 
lished in 1901, of Tennyson's "The Holy 
Grail," with an Introduction that makes care- 
ful comparison of the modern poem with the 
Perceval Romances and with the mediaeval 
stories of the early history and quest of the 



[ xili ] 

Grail; second, a translation, "such as only a 
poets' poet could have made," in the compli- 
cated original stanza, of the Middle English 
poem, "The Pearl" ; and, third, a collection, 
yet to be published, of ballads transcribed and 
translated from many Romance languages and 
dialects. 

Her poems came first as swift visions, frag- 
mentary or complete. Sometimes, alas, the 
vision vanished beyond recovery; sometimes 
she caught it in its fulness and translated it 
into winged words; more often, words or lines 
or stanzas would be lacking, and she would 
search for them through patient days or 
months, never content with anything less 
than the right phrase, word, or metre. Most 
of her poems were written and re-written in 
many versions, differing often very little ex- 
cept to her delicate ear and her keen sense. 
A life so rich in interest, in feeling, and in friend- 
ship was of necessity creative, though her 
academic occupations and responsibilities some- 
times checked the outflow of her poetry. In- 
deed, she often referred laughingly to Lowell's 
complaint of the distractions which teaching 
brings to the poet, as if a brooding hen "should 
have to mind the door bell." Yet the years 
of teaching bore a golden harvest of poetry. 
In 1896, she published the first collection of 
her lyrics, "The Pilgrim and Other Poems," 



[xiv] 

a volume dedicated to the beloved memory of 
her brother-in-law, Dr. Henry Hastings Hunt. 
She had before this published her poetry under 
her mother's name, Ellen Burroughs, but "The 
Pilgrim" appeared with her own name. Nine 
years later, in 1905, a second collection was 
made in the volume "Persephone and Other 
Poems," issued by the Wellesley College De- 
partment of English Literature for the college 
library fund. 

Miss Jewett remained always singularly shy 
about her poetry and very self-critical. The 
business of offering her verse to an editor was 
always particularly distasteful, and she would 
keep her poems in her desk for years before 
sending them forth. "If you honestly would 
not mind being post-ofhce for me," she wrote 
to the friend whom she later called her "oldest 
and faithfulest critic," "I will copy the poem 
and send it to you." Even so mature and 
perfect a poem as "The Pilgrim" reached the 
publisher through this happy intermediary. 
Nevertheless, she had always a sense of be- 
longing to the great fellowship. Long ago she 
sent to Richard Watson Gilder her poem in- 
spired by his "New Day," and among her 
papers was found his letter of acknowledg- 
ment: "Tell Ellen Burroughs that one by her 
called a poet declares that she is a true poet 
and must not let her golden gift be lost." 



[XV ] 

Miss Jewett's prose as well as her poetry 
shows the strength of her imagination. "The 
sunset glory of the Arno valley" (of which she 
writes in "The Lover of Trees in Italy") 
fairly smites our eyes, and we see "the fields 
of rose-colored vetch and wine-dark clover, 
of bright poppies and pale iris," past which she 
drove "into a world where acacias in full 
flower stood white among the cypresses." 
This picture, intense in colour, is followed by 
another of delicate and clear-cut form — a 
picture of the "characteristic trees in Italy — 
detached, sharply outlined, impressive from 
loneliness and contrast." Her imagination 
was at once "the bliss" and the torment of 
her "solitude." With vivid fidelity she re- 
called faces, figures, and voices; beauty once 
seen was her inalienable possession. But in 
equally unsparing detail of colour and form, of 
human expression and impersonal ugliness, 
she saw again squalor and sickness and suffer- 
ing; and with unpitying accuracy her imagina- 
tion made her the witness of the crimes and 
catastrophes of which she read. She remem- 
bered words as accurately as scenes. As she 
talked, half-turning from her desk, or pausing 
on a walk through the hilly wood-ways of 
Wellesley to mark the tender spring tints of 
the oak branches against the blue of the lake, 
a rapturous line from Dante's "Paradise" or 



[xvl] 

the refrain of a Chaucerian ballade would come 
to her lips, adding beauty to the world without 
and within. And to vision and memory she 
added thought. Swiftly, sometimes, but more 
often slowly and with careful consideration of 
every step, she reached her intellectual con- 
victions by the force of her thinking. Of 
these results of her reasoning she often had a 
characteristic distrust due to the peculiar 
wideness of her intellectual sympathy, her 
understanding of opinions which she did not 
share, her ability to face problems from di- 
vergent points of view. 

All her critics have spoken of the many- 
sidedness of her verse. But no mere reader of 
the poems could guess at the richness of her 
nature or divine the refreshing alternations of 
mood and interest which all her friends so well 
knew. Never poet could be on occasion more 
prosaic; never idealist was so realistic; never 
visionary was so prompt and business-like, and 
utterly to be depended on in the ordering 
of academic, social, and household detail. 
Most of the prose sketches suggest the rich 
and pathetic quality of her humour, but no 
record could ever be preserved of her flashing 
wit and her inimitable repartee. It is even 
harder to convey by words the sense of her 
bodily presence. There was something in her 
aspect that drew the eyes and hearts of those 



[ xvii ] 

who looked on her, something more than 
beauty of feature, stately presence, or gracious 
ways. One of her colleagues writes of "the 
refreshment of that life-communicating beauty, 
of that swift smile, that buoyant step," and 
those who saw her daily would be the first to 
say to the unknown friend "who never save 
in fancy saw her face" that sight and intimate 
acquaintance would have brought no disillu- 
sion, and that the reality like the dream would 
"set the heart aglow." 

Sophie Jewett was, in truth, friend and com- 
rade even more surely than poet and teacher. 
Though delicately scrupulous never to disre- 
gard "the quivering barrier line" of any soul, 
she was divinely quick to respond to an appeal, 
spoken or unspoken, for inspiration, counsel, or 
help. People turned to her in practical per- 
plexity, in moral struggle, and in personal need; 
and her discernment, her wholesome strength, 
her comprehension, and her faith did not fail 
them. Her life centred in the tenderness and 
passion of her sympathy which was as wide as 
deep. She was touched not only by the griefs 
and joys of those closest to her, and not only 
by the needs of those with whom she came into 
personal contact of helpfulness, — her mission 
boys in the old Buffalo days, and, later, her 
Italian friends in the North End of Boston, — 
but by poverty and oppression, by sin and sor- 



[ xviii ] 

row, everywhere. She bore in her heart the 
suflferings of Russian prisoners in the fortress 
of Peter and Paul, of refugees from the earth- 
quake in Messina. For this outpouring of 
sympathy she gladly paid the heavy price of 
suffering which lost no pang for its vicarious- 
ness. "I wish," she wrote, "that instead of 
being so good to me God would be good to 
some of the people who need." 

Yet notwithstanding her sympathy with 
suffering, in the face of physical pain gallantly 
borne, and despite the constant dissatisfaction 
with her work due to her unattainable ideal 
of perfection, she knew the joy of living: the 
outdoor world remained an ever-present source 
of pleasure; her swift and keen humour was 
the compensation for many ills, an alchemy 
which transformed the trials and mischances 
of everyday life; her happiness in friendship 
was inexhaustible, not only her eager delight 
in the gladness, in the achievement, of her 
friends, but her pure joy in the loving inter- 
course of spirit with spirit. Her hope was 
deeply disciplined, and she distrusted all com- 
placent and unheeding optimism: "It is," she 
says, " as if I felt the pain of all the coming 
years." But she was not, as she truly pro- 
tested, "a pessimist. I begin to believe," she 
added, "that sorrow is the one thing that does 
not make people pessimistic." Her courage 



[xix] 

and her faith were indeed deeply rooted. Sine 
dolore non vivitur in amore, she quoted from 
Thomas a Kempis, "and it is better, in spite 
of the pain, so to live." None of the poems 
more truly express her deepest self than the 
poems of faith and of vision. For deeper than 
her feeling of the beauty, the love, and the 
misery of this world, underlying her experi- 
ence of its separations, was her abiding con- 
sciousness of unbroken communion and of 
the endlessness of the life of the spirit. "I 
am almost surprised" she wrote a long time 
ago, "to find the distinctness in my mind of 
the picture of the view from your windows. 
I see the objects that you see, I almost feel the 
air that you breathe. May it not be the same 
in the spiritual things of our friendship.'' And 
... if the distances of earth are powerless to* 
separate heart from heart, why should that little 
space between this 'seen' and that 'unseen' 
be impassable.''" Twenty years later she spoke 
the same thought in words that are the posses- 
sion of all who know and love her: — 

" Yet, since I need nor touch nor sight 
Nor spoken word, however dear, 
To read your thought and will aright, 
To know your spirit, now and here, 
What has our fellowship to fear? " 



CONTENTS 



The poems indicated by a star (*) were first published 
in "The Pilgrim and Other Poems" ; those marked by a 
double star (**) first appeared in " Persephone and Other 
Poems." 

PORTRAIT; from a Photograph, 1889 Frontispiece 

PACE 

BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION v 

I. THE PILGRIM 3 

The Century, 1894. 

,IL SONNETS: 

The Soldier* 9 

A Friendship 10 

The Century, 1890 
Separation 11 

Scribner's Magazine, 1887 

Absent* 12 

Thus Far 13 

The Overland Monthly, 1887 
Thoughts 14 

The Congregationalist, 1893 
Christmas 15 

The St. Louis Observer, 1893 

Sidney Lanier* 16 

Thamyris** 17 

In Vita di Madonna Laura : XXII 

{From the Italian of Petrarch) 18 

xxi 



[ xxii ] 

PAGE 

A Petition 19 

Limitations 20 

To Pain 21 

To Catherine Breshkovsky 22 

The Outlook, igoQ 

III. RONDEAUS: 

If Spirits Walk 25 

The Century, i8qj 

I SAW Love's Eyes* 26 

Across the Fields * 27 

I SPEAK Your Name* 28 

MiGNONNE* 29 

IV SONGS: 

Armistice 33 

Scribner's Magazine, 1892 

EvEN-SONG* 34 

Song: Thy Face I have seen .... 35 

Scribner's Magazine, 1888 
Song: O Love Thou art Winged and 

Swift* 36 

Song: I come across the Sea* .... 38 
Song: Laughter that ringeth All Day 

Long 39 

Scribner's Magazine, 1887 

Song: Lady Mine* 41 

Songs from an Unprinted Poem:* 

I. Hast seen the Blue Wave . . 42 

II. O Day Thou art so Weary Long 43 

Bud and Rose* • 44 

A Winter Song* 45 

To a Child 47 

Scribner's Magazine, 1905 

• A Song in Spring** 48 

A Song in Summer** 49 

With a Daffodil** 50 



[ xxiii ] 

PAGE 

Song: My Heart is as a Still Grass- 
hidden Nest 51 

Scribner^s Magazine, 1904. 
April {From the French of Remy Belleau) . 52 

The Wellesley Magazine, iSg^ 
Rudel's Song {From the French of Edmond 

Rostand) 53 

La Sireneta's Song {From the Italian of 

Gabriele D'^nnunzio) 55 

The Song of the Sun {From the Italian of 

St. Francis of Assisi) 58 

Nativity Song {Adapted from the Latin 

of Jacopone da Todi) 60 

The Least of Carols** 61 

OTHER LYRICS: 

t- When Beauty Dies 65 

Harper'' s Magazine, 1904 

Though Unseen* 67 

Awakened 68 

Harper's Magazine, IQ04. 

Defeated 70 

A Dream 71 

Scribner's Magazine, 1888 

Sleep* 72 

Sangraal* 73 

Gabriel* 74 

Midwinter 76 

The Century, igo2 
Easter 77 

Scribner's Magazine, IQOQ 

In the Dark 78 

Vision 79 

Brief Life 80 

Scribner's Magazine, IQ09 
Of Transient Beauty 81 

Scribner's Magazine, 1910 



[ xxiv ] 



PAGE 

Pompeii (Unfinished) 82 

An Exile's Garden 83 

From Over-sea* 84 

Sunset on the Campagna** 86 

Venice in April* 88 

In Umbria** 91 

White Head 94 

The New England Magazine, iSgj 

Vespers 97 

Scribner's Magazine, i88g 

In Harvest** 99 

When Nature hath betrayed the 

Heart that loved Her* 100 

In April loi 

The Wellesley Magazine, i8qs 

Across the Border 102 

The Century, 1903 

February* 103 

At Sea 104 

The Wellesley Magazine, 1894. 

A Land-wind* 105 

The White Storm 106 

River and Bird 108 

The Christian Union, 1883 

Destiny* no 

The Congregationalist, 1893 

A Journey ni 

The Cosmopolitan, 1891 

Ghosts* 113 

Answered 114 

The Watcher and the Wind* .... 115 

A Smiling Demon of Notre Dame* . 116 

Pan and Psyche* 117 

The Madonna 118 

Scribner's Magazine, 1888 

Holy Earth** 120 

A Greeting* 122 



[ XXV ] 

PAGE 

Communion* 124 

Entre Nous* 125 

Inscriptions: 126 

I. In a Book of Old Songs 
II. In a Book that You have Read 

Scribner's Magazine, 1904 
With a Copy of Wharton's " Sappho " ** 128 
A Hearth-fire Verse 129 

The Wellesley Magazine, igos 
For a Birthday 130 

The Wellesley Magazine, 1908 
To 132 

The Wellesley Prelude, 1889 

Metempsychosis* 133 

A Letter* 136 

To-day's Daughter.* Written for the 
Graduating Class at Smith College, 

June, 1885 139 

The Common Chord* 147 

Sidney Lanier 149 

The Literary World, 1890 

To Richard Watson Gilder 151 

To A Dead Poet 153 

The Outlook, 1905 
God and the Singer** 155 

VI. THE SHEPHERDS i6i 

The Churchman, 1906 

VII. THE DWARF'S QUEST, a Ballad** . . 167 

VIII. THE DAUGHTER OF JORIO, a Pas- 
toral Tragedy {From the Italian 
QJ Gabriele D' Annunzio, Unfinished) . . 179 



THE PILGRIM 



THE PILGRIM 

"Such a palmer ne'er was scene, 
Lesse Love himselfe had palmer beene." 

Never too Late. 

PILGRIM feet, pray whither bound? 
Pilgrim eyes, pray whither bent? 
Sandal-shod and travel-gowned^ 
Lo, I seek the way they went 
Late who passed toward Holy Land. 

Pilgrim, it was long ago; 
None remains who saw that band; 
Grass and forest overgrow 
Every path their footing wore. 
Men are wise; they seek no more 
Roads that lead to Holy Land. 

Proud his look, as who should say: 
/ shall find where lies the way. 

Pilgrim, thou art fair of face, 
Staff and scrip are not for thee; 

3 



[4] 

Gentle pilgrim, of thy grace, 
Leave thy quest, and bide with me. 
Love shall serve thee, joy shall bless; 
Thou wert made for tenderness: 
God's green world is fair and sweet; 
Not o'er sea and Eastern strand, 
But where friend and lover meet 
Lies the way to Holy Land. 

Low his voice, his lashes wet: 
One day if God will — not yet. 

Pilgrim, pardon me and heed. 
Men of old who took that way 
Went for fame of goodly deed, 
Or, if sooth the stories say, 
Sandalled priest, or knight in selle, 
Flying each in pain and hate. 
Harassed by stout fiends of hell, 
Sought his crime to expiate. 
Prithee, Pilgrim, go not hence; 
Clear thy brow, and white thy hand, 
What shouldst thou with penitence.? 
Wherefore seek to Holy Land.? 

Stern the whisper on his lip: 
Sin and shame are in my scrip. 



[5] 

Pilgrim, pass, since it must be; 
Take thy staff, and have thy will; 
Prayer and love shall follow thee; 
I will watch thee o'er the hill. 
What thy fortune God doth know; 
By what paths thy feet must go. 
Far and dim the distance lies, 
Yet my spirit prophesies: 
Not in vigil lone and late, 
Bowed upon the tropic sand, 
But within the city gate, 
In the struggle of the street. 
Suddenly thine eyes shall meet 
His whose look is Holy Land. 

Smiled the pilgrim, sad and sage: 
Long must be my pilgrimage, 

1891 



SONNETS 



THE SOLDIER 

"Non vi si pensa quanto sangue costa." 

Paradiso XXIX. 91. ^ 

THE soldier fought his battle silently. 
Not his the strife that stays for set of sun; 

It seemed this warfare never might be done; 

Through glaring day and blinding night fought he. 
There came no hand to help, no eye to see; 

No herald's voice proclaimed the fight begun; 

No trumpet, when the bitter field was won, 

Sounded abroad the soldier's victory. 
As if the struggle had been light, he went, 

Gladly, life's common road a little space; 

Nor any knew how his heart's blood was spent; 
Yet there were some who after testified 

They saw a glory grow upon his face; 

And all men praised the soldier when he died. 

1894 



[10] 



A FRIENDSHIP 

SMALL fellowship of daily commonplace 
We hold together, dear, constrained to go 
Diverging ways. Yet day by day I know 
My life is sweeter for thy life's sweet grace; 

And if we meet but for a moment's space. 

Thy touch, thy word, sets all the world aglow. 
Faith soars serener, haunting doubts shrink low, 
Abashed before the sunshine of thy face. 

Nor press of crowd, nor waste of distance serves 
To part us. Every hush of evening brings 
Some hint of thee, true-hearted friend of mine; 

And as the farther planet thrills and swerves 

When towards it through the darkness Saturn swings, 
Even so my spirit feels the spell of thine. 

1888 



[II] 



SEPARATION 

ALONG the Eastern shore the low waves creep, 
Making a ceaseless music on the sand, 
A song that gulls and curlews understand. 
The lullaby that sings the day to sleep. 

A thousand miles afar, the grim pines keep 
Unending watch upon a shoreless land. 
Yet through their tops, swept by some wizard hand, 
The sound of surf comes singing up the steep. 

Sweet, thou canst hear the tidal litany; 

I, mid the pines land-wearied, may but dream 
Of the far shore; but though the distance seem 

Between us fixed, impassable, to me 

Cometh thy soul's voice, chanting love's old theme, 
And mine doth answer, as the pines the sea. 

i88s 



[12] 



ABSENT 

MY friend, I need thee in good days or 111, 
I need the counsel of thy larger thought; 
And I would question all the year has brought — 
What spoil of books, what victories of will; 

But most I long for the old wordless thrill, 

When on the shore, like children picture-taught, 
We watched each miracle the sweet day wrought. 
While the tide ebbed, and every wind was still. 

Dear, let It be again as If we mused. 

We two, with never need of spoken word 
(While the sea's fingers twined among the dulse, 

And gulls dipped near), our spirits seeming fused 
In the great Life that quickens wave and bird, 
Our hearts In happy rhythm with the world-pulse. 

March 30, 1889 



[13] 



THUS FAR 

BECAUSE my life has lain so close to thine, 
Because our hearts have kept a common beat, 
Because thine eyes turned towards me frank and 

sweet - 
Reveal sometimes thine untold thoughts to mine, 

Think not that I, by curious design. 
Or over-step of too impetuous feet. 
Could desecrate thy soul's supreme retreat, 
Could disregard its quivering barrier-line. 

Only a simple Levite, I, who stand 

On the world's side of the most holy place, 
Till, as the new day glorifies the east. 

One come to lift the veil with reverent hand 
And enter with thy soul's soul face to face, — 
He whom thy God shall call to be high priest. 

188} 



[14] 



THOUGHTS 

THE morning brought a stranger to my door. 
I know not whence such feet as his may stray, 
From what still heights, along what star-set way. 
A child he seemed, yet my eyes fell before 

His eyes Olympian. I did implore 
Him enter, linger but one golden day 
To bless my house. He passed, he might not stay, 
And though I call with tears, he comes no more. 

At noon there stole a beggar to my gate; 
Of subtle tongue, the porter he beguiled. 
His creeping, evil steps my house defiled. 

I flung him scornful alms, I bade him straight 
To leave me. Swift he clutched my fee and smiled, 
Yet went not forth, nor goes, despite my hate. 



[15] 



CHRISTMAS 

THE Christmas bells ring discord overhead; 
The Christmas lights flash cold across the snow; 
The angel-song fell silent long ago; 
Nor seer, nor silly shepherd comes, star-led, 

To kneel to-night beside a baby's bed. 

Peace is not yet, and wrong and want and woe 

Cry in the city streets, and love is slow, 

And sin is sleek and swift and housed and fed. 

Dear Lord, our faith is faint, our hearts are sore; 
Our prayers are as complaints, our songs as cries; 
Fain would we hear the angel-voice once more, 

And see the Star still lead along the skies; 
Fain would, like sage and simple folk of yore, 
Watch where the Christ-child smiles in Mary's eyes. 



[i6] 



SIDNEY LANIER 

Died September 7, 1881 

THE South wind brought a voice; was it of bird? 
Or faint-blown reed ? or string that quivered 
long? 

A haunting voice that woke into a song 

Sweet as a child's low laugh, or lover's word. 
We listened idly till it grew and stirred 

With throbbing chords of joy, of love, of wrong; 

A mighty music, resonant and strong; 

Our hearts beat higher for that voice far-heard. 
The Southwind brought a shadow, purple-dim, 

It swept across the warm smile of the sun ; 

A sudden shiver passed on field and wave; 
The grasses grieved along the river's brim. 

We knew the voice was silent, the song done; 

We knew the shadow smote across a grave. 



[17] 



THAMYRIS 

And they took from him his high gift of song, so that he forgo 
his harping. — Iliad II. 

OF Strong hands, as at first that hew and build; 
Of evil hearts and brave that fight and slay; 
Of feast and dance, birthday and marriage day; 
Of passion, loss, and joy of love fulfilled 
God's singers make sweet verse, and hearts song- 
thrilled 
Are keener set to suffer, strive, and play. 
This poet, only, gives no heed alway, 
Though earth with life be loud, with death be 
stilled. 
He strays, a shadow, wistful, through the land, 
His eyes unseeing and his head uncrowned; 
No song he makes of love, nor war, nor wine; 
No hymn, no prayer; there comes no mastering 
sound 
From that sweet harp forgotten of his hand. 
Left to the vagrant fingering of the vine. 

1899 



[i8] 



IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA: XXII 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH 
Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi. 

ALONE and thoughtful, some most desert field 
I measure with reluctant steps and slow; 
Or strive by shy, untrodden paths to go, 
Watchful and fugitive. No other shield 

Save flight I find, who fain would keep concealed 
From the world's open scrutiny the glow 
Beneath the ashes of my smile. I know 
How lightly were my heart's red fire revealed. 

I think that even hill and mountain peak. 
River and forest know of what sad kind 
Is this my hidden life; and yet I find 

That, whatsoever steepest way I walk, 

And wildest. Love himself that road will seek, 
Always, and he and I together talk. 



[19] 



A PETITION 

WE looked to Joy as furrows to the sun 
In sowing time. Of that relentless heat 

That spares the blade to blast the ripened wheat 

How should we know, with summer but begun? 
We followed Joy, nor knew how swiftly run 

The untraceable and unreturning feet. 

That quest I have no courage to repeat; 

I am content; I ask no grace save one: 
Lord, I will bear my own heart's utmost pain; 

I will go softly, with bent, humbled head; 

I will not strive, nor cry, nor pray again, 
If Thou wilt hear in this my need extreme. 

Wilt give me once, give me though in a dream, 

To see the eyes I love be comforted. 

1896 



[20] 



LIMITATIONS 

GOD made man to be poet, priest and seer; 
God sets no snare to wound the spirit's wing, 
But yields His thought to our interpreting 
In characters of sunlight, written clear; — 

Nay more, who walks in densest shade may hear 
From every rock the holy echoes ring, 
May bend the knee where forest thrushes sing, 
And know the Voice Eternal at his ear. 

Truth yet diviner, deep within the mind — 
His revelation since the world began — 
Hath God denied not to His friend. But man 

Fain gropes in dust the infinite to find. 
Fain peers afar the immanent to scan. 
Forgive him, Father, whom Thy light doth blind. 



[21] 



TO PAIN 

NOT by the minutes of thin torture spun, 
Not by the nights whose hours halt and slip 
back, 
Not by the days when golden noon turns black 
Hast thou dismayed me; but that, one by one, 

Pale shadows pass me of my tasks undone. 

While, like a victim loosed from wheel and rack. 
With will unnerved, breath scant and sinew slack, 
I droop, where glad folk labour in the sun. 

And yet, O winged Inquisitor, return, 

Stay, though I cringe and cry and plead for grace, 
If thou hast more to teach, still would I learn; 

I choose, even with faint heart and quivering lip. 
Some place in the great, patient fellowship 
Of those that know the light upon thy face. 

1904 



[22] 



TO CATHERINE BRESHKOVSKY 

IN THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL 

THE liberal summer wind and sky and sea, 
For thy sake, narrow like a prison cell 
About the wistful hearts that love thee well 
And have no power to comfort nor set free. 

They dare not ask what these hours mean to thee: 
Delays and silences intolerable? 
The joy that seemed so near, that soared, and fell, 
Become a patient, tragic memory? 

From prison, exile, age, thy gray eyes won 
Their gladness. Mother, as of youth, and sun, 
And love; and though thy hero heart, at length 

Tortured past thought, break for thy children's tears, 
Thy mortal weariness shall be their strength, 
Thy martyred hope their vision through far years. 

August, 1909 



RONDEAUS 



"IF SPIRITS WALK" 

"I have heard (but not believed) the spirits of the dead 
May walk again." 

Winter's Tale. 

IF spirits walk, Love, when the night climbs slow 
The slant footpath where we were wont to go, 
Be sure that I shall take the self-same way 
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, 
Sheer, gravelled slope, where vetches straggling grow. 

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow. 
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; 
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, 
If spirits walk. 

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low. 
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so 
As some one's fingers once were used to play — 
That hour when birds leave song, and children 
pray, 
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know 
If spirits walk. 

25 



[26] 



I SAW LOVE'S EYES 

I SAW Love's eyes, I saw Love's crowned hair; 
I heard Love's voice, a song across the air; 
The glad-of-heart were of Love's royal train; 
Sweet-throated heralds cried his endless reign, 
And where his garment swept, the earth grew fair. 

Along Love's road one walked whose feet were bare 
And bleeding; no complaint he made, nor prayer, 
Yet dim and wistful as a child's in pain 
I saw Love's eyes. 

I groped with Love where shadow lay, and snare; 
I climbed with Love the icy mountain stair; 

The wood was dark, the height was hard to gain; 

The birds were songless and the flowers were slain; 
Yet brave alway above my heart's despair 
I saw Love's eyes. 

November 21, 1895 



[27] 




ACROSS THE FIELDS 

CROSS the fields, the happy fields that lay 
Unfaded yet, one visionary day 
We walked together, and the world was sweet. 
Each heard the whisper neither might repeat, 
Love's whisper underneath our light word-play. 

When fields were brown, when skies hung close and 

gray, 
Alone I walked the dear familiar way, 

With eager heart, with hurrying love-led feet, 
Across the fields. 

O life that hath so bitter words to say! 
O heart so sore impatient of delay! 

O wistful hands that reach and may not meet! 

O eyes that yearn for answering eyes to greet! 
The summer comes. It wins me not to stray 
Across the fields. 



[28] 



I SPEAK YOUR NAME 

I SPEAK your name In alien ways, while yet 
November smiles from under lashes wet. 
In the November light I see you stand 
Who love the fading woods and withered land, 
Where Peace may walk, and Death, but not Regret. 

The year Is slow to alter or forget; 
June's glow and autumn's tenderness are met. 
Across the months by this swift sunlight spanned, 
I speak your name. 

Because I loved your golden hair, God set 
His sea between our eyes. I may not fret, 

For, sure and strong, to meet my soul's demand. 
Comes your soul's truth, more near than hand in 
hand; 
And low to God, who listens, Margaret, 
I speak your name. 

November 20, 1892 



[29] 



MIGNONNE 

FOURTEENTH CENTURY FORM 

MIGNONNE, whose face bends low for my 
caressing, 
New and unknown to-night thy beauty seemeth; 
Dimly I read thine eyes as one who dreameth. 

The moonlight yester-eve fell soft in blessing, 

That coldly now across thy bright hair gleameth; 

Mignonne, whose face bends low for my caressing. 
New and unknown to-night thy beauty seemeth. 

As penitent, low-voiced, his sins confessing. 

Pleads where the light of the high altar streameth, 
I speak to thee, whose love my love redeemeth. 

Mignonne, whose face bends low for my caressing. 
New and unknown to-night thy beauty seemeth; 
Dimly I read thine eyes as one who dreameth. 



SONGS 



ARMISTICE 

THE water sings along our keel. 
The wind falls to a whispering 
breath; 
I look into your eyes and feel 

No fear of life or death; 
So near is love, so far away 
The losing strife of yesterday. 

We watch the swallow skim and dip; 

Some magic bids the world be still; 
Life stands with finger upon lip; 

Love hath his gentle will; 
Though hearts have bled, and tears have 

burned, 
The river floweth unconcerned. 

We pray the fickle flag of truce 
Still float deceitfully and fair; 

Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; 
This hour we will not care, 

Though just beyond to-morrow's gate, 

Arrayed and strong, the battle wait. 
1891 33 



[34] 



EVEN-SONG 

COME, O Love, while the far stars 
whiten. 
Gathering, growing, momently; 
Thou, who art star of stars, to lighten 
One dim heart that waiteth thee. 

Speak, O Love, for the silence presses, 
Bowing my spirit like a fear; 

Thou, whose words are as caresses, 
Sweet, sole voice that I long to hear. 



[35] 



T 



SONG 

HY face I have seen as one seeth 
A face in a dream, 
Soft drifting before me as drifteth 

A leaf on the stream: 
A face such as evermore fleeth 

From following feet, 
A face such as hideth and shifteth 
Evasive and sweet. 

Thy voice I have heard as one heareth 

Afar and apart. 
The wood-thrush that rapturous poureth 

The song of his heart; 
Who heedeth is blest, but who neareth 

In wary pursuit, 
May see where the singer upsoareth, 

The forest is mute. 



[36] 



SONG 



IC 



OLOVE, thou art winged and swift, 
Yet stay with me evermore!" 
And I guarded my house with bolt and bar 
Lest Love fly forth at the door. 



Without, in the world, 't was cold, 

While Love and I together 
Laughed and sang by my red hearth-iire, 

Nor knew it was winter weather. 

Sweet Love would lull me to sleep, 

In his tireless arm caressed; 
His shadowing wings and burning eyes 

Like night and stars wrought rest. 

And ever the beat of Love's heart 

As a chime rang at my ear; 
And ever Love's bending, beautiful face 

Covered me close from fear. 



[37] 

Was it long ere I waked alone? 

A snow-drift whitened the floor; 
I saw spent ashes upon my hearth 

And Death in my open door. 

1893 



[38] 



I 



SONG 

COME across the sea, 
(0 ship, ride fast) ! 
True heart, I sail to thee; 
Sail home at last. 
Yet ships there are that never reach their 
haven, 
Though glad they sail; 
And hoarse laments of curlew and sea-raven 
Haunt every gale. 

My ship lies at the pier 

(The tide 's at turn); 
No place she hath for fear 
From prow to stern. 
O Love, the soul shall never miss its haven, 

Though it sail far, 
Nor hoarse laments of curlew and sea-raven 
May reach yon star. 

1893 



[39] 



SONG 

LAUGHTER that rlngeth all day long 
In a world of dancing feet; 
A heart attuned to a bird's wild song, 

As eager, as wayward and sweet. 
Love, passing by, drew near and smiled: 
"Ah, dear Love, wait, she is a child! " 
Reluctantly he went his way: 
I shall come back another day." 



i( 



A heavier-drooping lid, a line 

Gentler in curving cheek and chin; 
Lips where joys tremble, where hopes shine; 

And something more — a storm within, 
A heart that wakes to sudden fears. 
And eyes that know the use of tears: 
"Ah, cruel Love! to come and teach 
A pain that knows nor name nor speech!" 

Love stands aggrieved: "Farewell, I go! 
Take back thy child-heart's unconcern." 



[40] 

"Nay, nay! Thou shalt not leave me so!" 
She holds him fast with tears that burn. 
*' Sweet Love, I pray thee to abide. 
If thou walk constant at my side. 
Through doubt, through sorrow, through 

despair, 
No pain can be too hard to bear." 

1882 



[41] 



SONG 

LADY mine, so passing fair, 
Would 'st thou roses for thy hair? 
Would 'st thou lilies for thy hand? 
Bid me pluck them where they stand. 
Those are warm and red to see, 
These are cold. Are both like thee? 
Brow of lily, lip of rose. 
Heart that no man living knows! 
If one knelt beside thy feet, 
Would 'st thou spurn, or love him, Sweet? 



[42] 



SONGS FROM AN UNPRINTED 
POEM 



HAST seen the blue wave sleeping, 
sleeping, 
By gentle winds caressed? 
Hast seen the far moon ceaseless keeping 
Her watch above its rest? 

Hast seen the pale moths drift together 
With winged seeds wind-sown? 

Hast seen the falling of gull's feather, 
Or leaf from wild rose blown? 

Hast seen the white wave dancing, dancing. 

With wondrous witchery, 
Like hers who rose, men's hearts entrancing, 

From out the sun-bright sea? 

Lighter than wave, or leaf, or pinion, 
Than circling moth more fleet, 

Than goddess mightier of dominion, , 
The charm of rhythmic feet. 



[43] 

II 

O day thou art so weary long! 

O night so maddening brief! 
Swift moments for life's feast and song, 

Slow hours for life's grief. 

A thousand pearls the lavish sea 

Rolls up to fill my hands; 
The ebb-tide leaves but shells to me 

Empty upon the sands. 



[44] 



BUD AND ROSE 

FOR A CHILD 

IT is SO small! 
A cup of green, — a tiny tip 
As pink as is a baby's lip, 
And that is all. 

But sunshine's kiss. 
And rain-drops falling warm and fast, 
And coaxing winds will make at last 

A rose like this. 



[45] 



A WINTER SONG 

ALL the roses are under the snow: 
Only the tips 
Of the bare, brown, thorny bushes show. 

Out of sight, pretty blossoms sleep 
Sweet and sound; there are left for me 
Fairest of roses, one, two, three, — 

Where do you think? 
On my baby's cheeks two, pale and pink, 
And one that is ripe and red and deep, 
On my baby's lips. 

All the bonnie brown birds are flown 

Far to the South. 
Never a piping, fluted tone, 

Never a silver, soaring song 
From wood-path sounds, or meadow white; 
Yet, in his hurried southward flight. 

Some songster kind 
Has left the sweetest of gifts behind: 
Music that ripples all day long 

From my baby's mouth. 



[46] 

All the stars have faded away; 

The blue bright skies 
Show not a golden gleam to-day 

Where a thousand flashed last night; 
But when the far lamps blaze again, 
For the brightest you may look in vain 

(Sly truants two), 
Fast hidden away from me and you, 
Under soft covers folded tight 

In my baby's eyes. 



[47] 



TO A CHILD 

THE leaves talked in the twilight, dear; 
Hearken the tale they told: 
How in some far-off place and year, 
Before the world grew old, 

I was a dreaming forest tree, 

You were a wild, sweet bird 
Who sheltered at the heart of me 

Because the north wind stirred; 

How, when the chiding gale was still, 

When peace fell soft on fear. 
You stayed one golden hour to fill 

My dream with singing, dear. 

To-night the self-same songs are sung 

The first green forest heard; 
My heart and the gray world grow young — 

To shelter you, my bird. 



[48] 



A SONG IN SPRING 

LISTEN, spring Is In the air; 
As of old the earth is fair; 
Youth is dead, and sorrow lies 
With a dream across his eyes. 
Softly, swiftly, lest he wake. 
Kiss again for Love's dear sake. 
Nay, for Love unsmiling stands, 
Holds a cup within his hands 
Bright and bitter to the brim. 
Who are ye dare drink with him.'* 

1898 



[49] 



A SONG IN SUMMER 

IF I were but the west wind, 
I would follow you; 
Cross a hundred hills to find 
Your world of green and blue; 

In your pine wood linger, 

Whisper to you there 
Stories old and strange, and finger 

Softly your bright hair. 



[50] 



WITH A DAFFODIL 

LADY, I am pale and cold, 
Shivering without your door, 
Yet my crown of winter-gold 
Poets loved and maidens wore 
In days of yore. 

In a fairer spot of earth, 

Some dream-shrouded, sweeter year, 
I, or mine, had other birth. 

Woke in fields of Warwickshire, 

And laughed to hear 

The boyish tread of Shakespeare's feet. 

Before the swallow, I and mine 
Made spring for him. O Lady sweet! 

Welcome, as of an honored line, 

Your Valentine. 

February 14, 1900 



[51] 



SONG 

MY heart Is as a still grass-hidden nest; 
O Lark, thy song is for the sky, 
the sky! 
Wilt thou drop softly down to me and rest, 
Song-wearied, by and by? 



[52] 



APRIL 

FROM THE FRENCH OF REMY BELLEAU 

APRIL, thou art the smile 
That erewhile 
Cyprls wore; and thy birth 
Is so sweet that in heaven 

The gods even 
Are breathing the perfume of earth. 

'Tis thou, gracious and mild, 

Hast beguiled 
Those exiles fleet of wing, — 
Exiles long time afar, 

Swallows that are 
The messengers faithful of spring. 



[53] 



RUDEL'S SONG 

FROM THE FRENCH OF EDMOND ROSTAND 

MEN wander up and down, 
A-singing through the town 
Some chestnut, blond, or brown 

Sweetheart: 
Chestnut or brown may reign, 
Or blond, won without pain, — 
But my Love doth remain 
Apart. 

• 

He merits little things 

Who faithful sighs and sings 

When every evening brings 

His star: 
Her white hand he may press, 
Her garment's hem caress: — 
But I love my Princess 

Afar. 



[54] 

'TIs sweet with love to burn, 
Always to love and yearn, 
To ask not in return 

Her heart: 
Love that may not attain, 
Most noble when most vain! 
And my Love shall remain 

Apart. 

A heavenly thing it seems 
This love of shades and gleams; 
What were life without dreams 

That are 
The one gift that may bless? 
I dream of her caress: — 
Let me love my Princess 

Afar! 

November 22, 1905 



[55] 



LA SIRENETA'S SONG 

FROMTHE ITALIAN OF GABRIELE D 'aNNUNZIO 

WE were seven sisters, 
Seven, and all were fair. 
We looked into the fountains, 
Each of us was fair. 

"Flower of rushes makes no bread, 
Mulberry blossom makes no wine, 
Threads of grass no linen fine," 

The mother to the sisters said. 

We looked into the fountains. 
Each of us was fair. 

The eldest was for spinning 
And wanted spindles of gold; 

The second was for weaving 
And wanted shuttles of gold; 

The third was for sewing 
And wanted needles of gold; 



[56] 

The fourth was for serving 

And wanted cups of gold; 
The fifth was for sleeping 

And wanted pillows of gold; 
The sixth was for dreaming 

And wanted dreams of gold; 
The little one was for singing, 

The youngest of them all, 
For singing, only singing, 

And wanted nothing at all. 

"Flower of rushes makes no bread. 
Mulberry blossom makes no wine, 
Threads of grass no linen fine/' 

The mother to the sisters said. 

We looked into the fountains, 
Each of us was fair. 

And the eldest sister span, 
Twisting spindle and heart; 
And the second sister wove. 
And she wove a web of pain; 
And the third sister sewed, 
Making a poisoned shift; 
And the fourth sister served. 



[57] 

And she served a tainted dish; 
And the fifth sister slept, 
Slept on the pillow of death; 
And the sixth sister dreamed, 
Dreamed in the arms of death. 
The mother wept in pain. 
Wept for the evil fate; 
But the youngest one who sang, 

Singing early and late, 
Singing, only singing. 

Had ever a happy fate. 

(La Gioconda, Act IV., Scene i.) 



[58] 



THE SONG OF THE SUN 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI 

OLORD, we praise Thee for our 
Brother Sun, 
Who brings us day, who brings us golden 

light. 
He tells us of Thy Beauty, Holy One. 
We praise Thee, too, when falls the quiet 

night, ^ - 

For Sister Moon, and every silver star 
That Thou hast set in Heaven, clear and 

far. 

For our brave Brother Wind we give Thee 

praise; 
For clouds and stormy skies, for gentle air; 
And for our Sister Water, cool and fair, 
Who does us service in sweet, humble ways; 
But, when the winter darkens, bitter cold, 
We praise Thee every night and all day 

long 



[J9] 

For our good friend, so merry and so bold, 

Dear Brother Fire, beautiful and strong. 

For our good Mother Earth, we praise 
Thee, Lord; 

For the bright flowers she scatters every- 
where; 

For all the fruit and grain her fields afford; 

For her great beauty, and her tireless care. 

We praise Thee, Lord, for gentle souls who 
live 

In love and peace, who bear with no com- 
plaint 

All wounds and wrongs; who pity and 
forgive; 

Each one of these, Most High, shall be 
Thy saint. 

(Incomplete) 



[6o] 



NATIVITY SONG 

ADAPTED FROM THE LATIN OF JACOPONE 

DA TOD I 

THE beautiful mother is bending 
Low where her baby lies, 
Helpless and frail, for her tending; 
But she knows the glorious eyes. 

The mother smiles and rejoices 

While the baby laughs in the hay; 
She listens to heavenly voices: 

'The child shall be king, one day." 



i(> 



O dear little Christ in the manger, 
Let me make merry with thee. 

O King, in my hour of danger, 
Wilt thou be strong for me? 



[6i] 



THE LEAST OF CAROLS 

LOVELIEST dawn of gold and rose 
Steals across undrlfted snows; 
In brown, rustling oak leaves stir 
Squirrel, nuthatch, woodpecker; 
Brief their matins, but, by noon, 
All the sunny wood 's a-tune: 
Jays, forgetting their harsh cries, 
Pipe a spring note, clear and true; 
Wheel on angel wings of blue, 
Trumpeters of Paradise; 
Then the tiniest feathered thing, 
All a-flutter, tail and wing. 
Gives himself to caroling: 

" Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee! 
Jesulino, hail to thee! 
Lowliest baby born to-day, 
Pillowed on a wisp of hay; 
King no less of sky and earth. 

And singing sea; 



[62] 

Jesu! Jesu! most and least! 
For the sweetness of thy birth 
Every little bird and beast, 
Wind and wave and forest tree, 
Praises God exceedingly, 

Exceedingly." 

December, 1904. 



OTHER LYRICS 



WHEN BEAUTY DIES 

SHOULD change fall In Its fated hour; 
Should music cease,shoulddarknessbe; 
Should star and sun and face and flower 
Turn dust of beauty endlessly, 
Beloved, what of you and me? 

I question how, by finer sense. 

The soul adventures ways unknown, 

Or what shall be Its recompense 
For death? what loveliness atone 
For earth's green glory sadly flown? 

Yet, since I need nor touch, nor sight. 
Nor spoken word, however dear. 

To read your thought and will aright. 
To know your spirit, now and here. 
What has our fellowship to fear? 



6S 



[66] 

Man's age-long doubt assails in vain 
The truth that lightens in your eyes, 

Or your still courage, bred of pain: 
Beyond the wreck of worlds and skies, 
I shall seek these, when beauty dies. 



[67] 



(( 



THOUGH UNSEEN 

FROM the dwelling-place of the Holy 
Dead 
Wilt thou come back to me? 
O Love, it is far 
To that glad, great star 
Whose shining hath hidden thee! 
Neither in star nor sun," she said, 
Her voice as it oft had been, 
"The dwelling-place of the H0I7 Dead, 
Nor dreamer nor saint hath seen." 

Lost Love of mine, where we walked of yore 
Thy feet made hallowed ground; 
Now earth is earth. 
Here are death and birth. 
But where is the glory found? 
Low at my side her voice once more, 
"Dull are thine eyes," she said; 
Walk with me now as we went of yore," 
And I walk with the Holy Dead. 

October 9, 1894 



(( 



[68] 



AWAKENED 

I PRAYED for other life to come, 
You prayed for sleep. 
We passed. The sentinels were dumb, 
The road was steep. 

I have forgotten days and hours; 

I found you, late, 
Asleep where grow tall nameless flowers 

Within the Gate. 

To shimmering heights of amethyst 

A bright path led; 
Far off I saw through silver mist 

The blessed dead. 

Those holy hills where souls rejoice 

Seemed flint and sand, 
If I must go without your voice, 

And miss your hand. 



[69] 

No less for me all Paradise 

Were dust and thorn, 
Should I in your awakening eyes 

See pain reborn. 

I feared to touch your shining hair, 

To breathe your name; 
I waited while the golden air 

Brightened to flame. 

Across your eyes the glory fell; 

They opened wide, — 
How beautiful I may not tell, — 

How satisfied. 

1901 



[70] 



DEFEATED 

WHEN the last fight is lost, the last 
sword broken; 
The last call sounded, the last order spoken; 
When from the field where braver hearts 

lie sleeping. 
Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come 

creeping. 
With not one waving shred of palm to 

bring you, 
With not one splendid battle-song to sing 

you, 
O Love, in my dishonor and defeat. 
Your measureless compassion will be sweet. 

1906 



[71] 



A DREAM 

LAST night, what time dreams wander 
east and west, 
What time a dream may linger, I lay dead, 
With flare of tapers pale above my head, 
With weight of drifted roses on my breast; 
And they, who noiseless came to watch my 
rest. 
Looked kindly down and gentle sentence 
said. 

One sighed "She was but young to go 
to-day;" 
And one "How fiercely life with death 

had striven 
Ere God set free her spirit, sorrow- 
shriven!" 
One said "The children grieve for her at 

play;" 
And one, who bent to take a rose away. 
Whispered "Dear love, would that we 
had forgiven." 



[72] 



SLEEP 

DEAR gray-eyed Angel, wilt thou 
come to-night? 
Spread the soft shadow of thy shelter- 
ing wings, 
And banish every hint of thought and 
light, 
And all the clamoring crowd of waking 
things ? 
Wilt thou bend low above wide weary eyes, 
As o'er the worn world bend the tireless 
skies ? 



[73] 



SANGRAAL 

TASTING the wine of death he found 
it sweet; 
Drank deeper draughts and only smiled 

the more; 
As if he touched the hand that held the cup, 
As if he saw the Christ look down on him, 
Content he whispered, "Lord, I drink to 
thee." 

1884 



[74] 



GABRIEL 

"That annunciation named death." 

"T KNOW thee, Angel, though thou 
J. dost not wear, 
As thou wast wont, the glory and the 

gold 
That smote upon the poet's gaze of old. 
Thou Messenger! What tidings dost thou 
bear? 



"I know thee winged and vested thus in 

gray, 
Not clouds of heaven and night of earth 

disguise 
The light supernal of thine awful eyes. 
O Angel, linger, speak to me who pray!" 

Almost I seemed to hold and to let slip 
The angel's robe; I know the gray wings 
cast 



[75] 

Shadow about me; yet he smiled and 
passed, 
That word of God a-qulver on his lip. 

When morning came, one died whom I 
held dear; 
The angel's smile lay on his quiet face; 
For him who pleaded not had been the 
grace. 
The word Ineffable I wait to hear. 

189s 



[76] 



MIDWINTER 

ALL night I dreamed of roses, 
Wild tangle by the sea, 
And shadowy garden closes. 
Dream-led I met with thee. 

Around thee swayed the roses. 
Beyond thee sang the sea; 

The shadowy garden closes 
Were Paradise to me. 

O Love, 'mid the dream-roses 

Abide to heal, to save! 
The world that day discloses 

Narrows to one white grave. 

1899 



[77] 



EASTER 

NO fear of death, or life, again shall 
pass 
Along these quivering fields of April grass, 
Where, under quiet, ever holier skies 
Sorrow keeps watch with glad, immortal 
eyes. 

1905 



[78] 



IN THE DARK 

10RD, since the strongest human hands 
^ I know 
Reach through my darkness, will not let 

me go, 
Hold me as if most dear when fallen most 
low; 

Since, even now, when my spent courage 

lies 
Stricken beneath disastrous, quivering 

skies, 
I learn the tenderness of human eyes; 

Surely, though night unthinkable impend. 
Where human hands nor human eyes be- 
friend. 
Thou wilt avail me in the lonely end. 

1907 



[79] 



VISION 

WHEN earth, and sea, and sky spread 
fair 
In flawlessly transparent air; 
When every blade of grass was kind, 
And my own joyous peace of mind 
Seemed part of a world-mood serene 
Where restlessness had never been, 
Too soon there stirred a wind of change, 
A doubt that made the beauty strange, 
A fear, mist-like, in-drifting dim. 
Because I nowhere met with Him. 

But when the flesh and spirit quailed 

For very pain; when the will failed; 

When, far from tenderest voice or hand, 

I crept into a desert land 

Of haggard grass and thorns, wherein 

Was lonely covert for my sin; 

When, even my grief turned faint and dumb, 

I waited what new ill might come. 

In that transfigured, awful place, 

Did I not see Him face to face? 



[8o] 



BRIEF LIFE 

HE came with the wind of dawn, when 
rose-red clouds were flying; 
In the glory of his coming the old world 
drifted dim. 
He went when the evening star outwatched 
day's quiet dying; 
Its path upon the sea made a white 
straight road for him. 

Did he dream a wistful dream in some 
radiant place supernal? 
Did he hear the human call, follow and 
lose his way? 
Has the touch of earth on the child made 
strange to him things eternal? 
Is he heir to sorrow and love, being mor- 
tal for one swift day? 

1906 



[8i] 



OF TRANSIENT BEAUTY 

ROSE-FLOWER and flower of grass 
and flower of flame 
Drift to the Beauty whence their beauty 

came; 
Fainter are they, more brief, than this June 

wind. 
Yet for the impalpable grace they leave 

behind 
The years may fashion an Immortal name. 

June 24, 1909 



[82] 



POMPEII 

OF death and time and silence softly 
wrought, 

Beauty, effacing horror, healing pain, 

Lies on the mountain slopes and fills the 
plain, 

Quickens each sense and lulls each ques- 
tioning thought. 

Where broken shaft and empty shrine have 
caught 

Wan glory of sunlight, ruin seems as gain; 

And pitiful the little lives, and vain, 

That loved, that played, and feasted, sold 
and bought. 

(Unfinished) 



[83] 



AN EXILE'S GARDEN 

I LIVE in the heart of a garden 
With cypresses all about; 
To the east and west, and the south and 
north, 
Straight shadowy paths run out. 

There are ancient gods in my garden; 

They have faces young and pale; 
And a hundred thousand roses here 

Enrapture the nightingale. 

Yet, among the gods of the garden, 

The roses and gods, I think, 
Daylong, of a far-oif clover field, 

And the song of a bob-o-link. 



[84] 



FROM OVER-SEA 

TO 

IN Italy how comes the spring? 
I look across wide fields of snow 
To naked woods, and long to know 
How fair the shimmering mountains He? 
How warm above them bends the sky 

Of Tuscany? 
What word from Rome the swallows bring, 

Swift sent to thee? 
Here stirs no life of bud nor wing; 
The trees by icy winds are torn; 
And yet I dream how flowers are born 

In Italy. 

I see the far, fair city swim 
Through mists of memory bright yet dim 
Shining, even as it shone of old 
Through Arno's haze of subtile gold, 
By witchery 



[8s] 

Of distance, light and evening spun. 
Tall cypresses against the sun 

Distinct I see, 
Defiling darkly up the hill, 
As when we wandered at our will 

In Italy. 



[86] 



SUNSET ON THE CAMPAGNA 

THE pines have no voice this ineffable 
hour, 
The sea and the Dome shine through 
wavering gold; 
Here, where stood temple and palace and 
tower, 
Shadows and grass lie in fold over fold, 

Hiding meek hearts that were masterful, 
living; 
Hiding mute lips that were loud with 
complaint; 
Mother of all, is it scorn or forgiving 
That covers so tenderly sinner and 
saint? 

Mountains keep watch like strong angels 
of pity; 
Mist on the plain lies more light than a 
kiss; 



[87] 

Eyes that were dust before Rome was a 
city, 
Eyes that love brightened, saw these, 
yet not this. 

Not the same wonder, not the same glory, 

Other, not lovelier, sunset and morn; 
Neither can thought find an end to the 
story 
Of youth for whose rapture the world is 
newborn. 

1901 



[88] 



VENICE IN APRIL: A MEMORY 

A GONDOLA motionless lying 
Under the Arsenal wall; 
A weary boatman at stern and at bow 
Supinely stretched half asleep; 
And you with eyes merrily deep 
Silent to mine replying, 
'T is sweet to remember how. 

We had floated far that day, 
That happiest day of all! 
The circling silver mountain-rim 
Shut us safe from the world away; 
Though eyes we loved were hurt and dim, 
There came to us nor cry nor call, 
Where, idle-oared, content we lay 
Under the Arsenal wall. 

On the ripple a quivering crescent 

Tossed like a tortured thing. 

But, far above, serene, 

It hung in the curve of the sky; 

At our prow was the gentle, incessant 



[89] 

Sound of the waves' caress, 

Impelled by the light breath wandering by 

From some ocean god unseen 

In his palace of idleness; 

And ever from two bell-towers 

Rang out the quarter-hours, 

In broken harmonies 

Like the changes in a chaunt: 

Sounds to stay in one's ears and haunt 

One's dreams with perplexing memories. 

Shoreward or seaward making. 

The boats passed lazily; 

We watched one golden sail that flew 

(Its fellow-flock forsaking) 

Before our eyes like a butterfly, 

Afar where the sea-breeze fresher grew; 

How it seemed to beckon from out the blue 

Of the mystical, deepening southern sky, 

Till we longed to follow, we two! 

The fair day loitered to its close. 

The boatmen awakened, the play-time was 

done; 
The wide air turned to gold and rose. 
And where we watched a passing rower. 



[9o] 

We saw the water run 

Drop by drop from his gleaming oar, 

Opal and pearl and amethyst. 

Eastward and westward grew the light; 
San Marco's domes were floating mist; 
The Campanile's slender height 
Stood pale against one purple cloud, 
Down which the sun dropped suddenly, 
Piercing it through with a golden shaft. 
We were silent now, none spoke nor laughed ; 
Only the bells anon rang loud, 
Ever repeating to you and to me: 
"The story is ended, the dream is o'er, 
You may carry away beyond the sea 
A picture, and nothing more." 

And yet, might the dream of a dreana avail, 

'T were good to dream it over again; 

To forget the years that lie between, 

To be careless of heart as then; 

To see the glow of that warm rose light, 

Feel the hush of that air serene; 

Once more down the silvery, far lagoon. 

Under opal sky and crescent moon. 

To follow that golden sail. 

1884 



[91] 



IN UMBRIA 

UNDER a roof of twisted boughs 
And silver leaves and noon-day sky, 
Among gaunt trunks, where lizards house, 

On the hot sun-burnt grass I lie; 
I hear soft notes of birds that drowse, 
And steps that echo by 

Unseen, along the sunken way 
That drops below the city-wall. 

Not of to-day, nor yesterday. 
The hidden, holy feet that fall. 

O whispering leaves, beseech them stay! 
O birds, awake and call! 

Say that a pilgrim, journeying long. 
From that loud land that lies to west. 

Where tongues debate of right and wrong, 
Would be ''The Little Poor Man's" 
guest; 



[92] 

Would learn "The Lark's" divine ''Sun- 
Song," 
And how glad hearts are blest. 

Say: "Master, we of over-seas 
Confess that oft our hearts are set 

On gold and gain; and if, with these, 
For lore of books we strive and fret, 

Perchance some lore of bended knees 
And saint-hood we forget; 

"Still, In one thought our lips are bold — 
That, in our world of haste and care, 

Through days whose hours are bought and 
sold. 
Days full of deeds, and scant of prayer, 

Of thy life's gospel this we hold: 
The hands that toil are fair. 

"Therefore, forgive; assoil each stain 
Of trade and hate, of war and wrath; 

Teach us thy tenderness for pain; 
Thy music that no other hath; 

Thy fellowship with sun and rain, 
And flowers along thy path." 



[93] 

Thou dost not answer. Down the track 
Where now I thought thy feet must pass, 

With patient step and burdened back 
Go "Brother Ox" and "Brother Ass." 

A mountain cloud looms swift and black, 
O'ershadowing stone and grass. 

The silver leaves are turned to gray; 

There comes no sound from hedge nor 
tree; 
Only a voice from far away, 

Borne o'er the silent hills to me, 
Entreats: "Be light of heart to-day; 

To-morrow joy shall be. 

"The glad of heart no hope betrays, 
Since 'Mother Earth' and 'Sister Death' 

Are good to know, and sweet to praise." 
I hear not all the far voice saith 

Of Love, that trod green Umbrian ways, 
And streets of Nazareth. 



1901 



[94] 



WHITE HEAD 

PRONE on the northern water, 
That laps him about the breast, 
Like the Sphinx in the sand, forever 
The giant lies in rest. 

The sails drive swift before him. 
And the surf beats at his lip, 

But the gray eyes look out seaward 
Noting nor wave nor ship. 

The centuries drift over. 

He marks not with smile nor frown, 
Drift over him cloud and sea-gull. 

Swallow and thistledown. 

I, of the race that passes, 

Quick with its hope and its fear, 

Lean on his brow and question. 
Plead at his senseless ear: 



[95] 

"What of thy past unmeasured? 

And what of the peoples gone? 
What of the sea's first singing? 

What of the primal dawn? 

"What was the weird that bowed thee? 

How did the struggle cease? 
Out of what Titan anguish 

Issued thy hopeless peace?" 

Nothing the pale lips utter, 

What hath been, nor what shall be; 
Under the brow's stern shadow, 

The gray eyes look to sea. 

The blue glows round and over. 
Thin- veiled, as it were God's face; 

I feel the breath, the spirit, 
That knows nor time nor space. 

And my heart grieves for the giant 

In his pitiful repose. 
Mocked by the vagrant gladness 

Of a laggard brier-rose; 



[96] 

Mocked to his face from seaward 
By the flash and whirl of wings; 

Mocked from the grass above him, 
By life that creeps and sings. 

I care not for his wisdom, 

His secret unconfessed; 
I yearn toward rose and cricket. 

Ephemeral and blest. 

Ah ! if he might, how would he 
Quicken to love and to tears; 

For my immortal minute 
Barter his endless years! 

He rests on the restless water, 
And I on the grasses brown. 

Drift over us cloud and sea-gull. 
Swallow and thistledown. 

Casco Bay 



[97] 



VESPERS 

THE robins call me sweet and shrill: 
"Come out and fare afield; 
The sun has neared the western hill, 
The shadows slip down sure and still, 
But in our meadow wide and wet 
There 's half an hour of sunshine yet; 
Come down, come down!" Who 
would not yield ? 

Across the road and through the lane, 

Where buttercups grow tall and bright 
With daisies washed in last night's rain, — 
Beyond the open bars I gain 
An angle of the rude rail-fence, 
A perfect coign of vantage, whence 
Wheat-field and pasture stretch in sight. 

The cows, with stumbling tread and slow, 

One after one come straggling by, 
And many a yellow head falls low, 
And many a daisy's scattered snow. 
Where the unheeding footsteps pass, 



[98] 

Is crushed and blackened in the grass, 
With brier and rue that trampled lie. 

Sweet sounds with sweeter blend and strive: 

In its white prime of blossoming 
Each wayside berry-bush, alive 
With myriad bees, hums like a hive; 
The frogs are loud in ditch and pool, 
And songs unlearned of court or school 
June's troubadours all round me sing. 

Somewhere beneath the meadow's veil 
The peewee's brooding notes begin; 
The sparrows chirp from rail to rail; 
Above the bickering swallows sail, 

Or skim the green half-tasselled wheat 
With plaintive cry; and at my feet 
A cricket tunes his mandolin. 

High-perched, a master-minstrel proud. 
The red-winged blackbird pipes and 
calls, 
One moment jubilant and loud, 
The next, to sudden silence vowed. 
Seeks cover in the marsh below; 
Soft winds along the rushes blow, 
And like a whisper twilight falls. 



[99] 

IN HARVEST 

MOWN meadows skirt the standing 
wheat; 
I linger, for the hay is sweet, 
New-cut and curing in the sun. 
Like furrows, straight, the windrows run. 
Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent 
When, yesterday, the west wind went 
A-rioting through grass and grain. 
To-day no least breath stirs the plain; 
Only the hot air, quivering, yields 
Illusive motion to the fields 
Where not the slenderest tassel swings. 
Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings; 
A goldfinch dangles from a tall. 
Full-flowered yellow mullein; all 
The world seems turning blue and gold. 
Unstartled, since, even from of old. 
Beauty has brought keen sense of her, 
I feel the withering grasses stir; 
Along the edges of the wheat, 
I hear the rustle of her feet: 
And yet I know the whole sea lies, 
And half the earth, between our eyes. 
1903 



[ 100 ] 



WHEN NATURE HATH BETRAYED 
THE HEART THAT LOVED HER 

THE gray waves rock against the gray 
sky-line, 
And break complaining on the long gray 

sand, 
Here where I sit who cannot understand 
Their voice of pain nor this dumb pain of 
mine; 

For I, who thought to fare till my days end, 
Armed sorrow-proof in sorrow, having 

known 
How hearts bleed slow when brave lips 
make no moan. 
How Life can torture, how Death may 
befriend 

When Love entreats him hasten, — even I, 
Who feared no human anguish that may 

be, 
I cannot bear the loud grief of the sea; 

I cannot bear the still grief of the sky. 



[lOl] 



IN APRIL 

ALL day the grass made my feet glad; 
I watched the bright life thrill 
To each leaf-tip and flower-lip; 

Swift winds that swept the hill, 
In garden nook light lingering, shook 
The budding daffodil. 

I know not if the earth have kept 

Work-day or festival: 
The sparrow sings of nestling things, 

Blithely the robins call; 
And loud I hear, from marsh-pools near. 

The hylas at nightfall. 

189s 



[ 102] 



ACROSS THE BORDER 

I have read somewhere that the birds of fairyland are 
white as snow. — W. B. Yeats. 

WHERE all the trees bear golden 
flowers, 
And all the birds are white; 
Where fairy folk in dancing hours 
Burn stars for candlelight; 

Where every wind and leaf can talk, 

But no man understand 
Save one whose child-feet chanced to walk 

Green paths of fairyland; 

I followed two swift silver wings; 

I stalked a roving song; 
I startled shining, silent things; 

I wandered all day long. 

But when it seemed the shadowy hours 

Whispered of soft-foot night, 
I crept home to sweet common flowers, 

Brown birds, and candlelight. 
1 901 



[ 103 ] 



FEBRUARY 

I AST night I heard a robin sing; 
^ And though I walked where woods 

were bare, 
And winds were cold, life quivered there, 
As if in sleep the heart of spring 
Were moved to dim remembering. 
To-day no promise haunts the air; 
I find but snow and silence where 
Last night I heard a robin sing. 



[ 104] 



AT SEA 

SO many eves the sun must sink within 
The westward plain of shoreless, 
homeless sea; 
So many morns, as if from heaven to 

heaven. 
From out the widening water in the east 
The sun must rise; so many summer days, 
Full in the face of the unveiled sky, 
The ship must float, till even the strongest 

gull, 
Deserting, wheels to track a land-bound 

sail. 
So many days! Yet there shall come a 

day — 
Some golden, holy, August afternoon — 
When, tired of sea at eve and sea at morn, 
The sun shall droop like a contented child, 
And sleep among the cradling hills of home. 



[105] 



A LAND-WIND 

THE lichen rustles against my cheek, 
But the heart of the rock is still; 
With chattering voice the cedars speak, 
Crouched gray on the barren hill. 

A land-wind snarls on the cliff's sheer edge, 

Below, the smitten sea 
Comes fawning over a sunken ledge. 

And cowers whimperingly. 

In the sultry wood lies a restless hush. 
Not a twitter falls from the sky; 

Hidden are swallow, sparrow, and thrush, 
And the sea-birds only cry. 



[io6] 



THE WHITE STORM 

THE snow and the high spray mingle; 
They swirl round the beacon-head; 
And the sea on cliff and shingle 
Calls for his hundred dead. 

The mothers hear who have listened, 
Trembling, through every gale, 

Lest the sons in sorrow christened 
Be named in the yearly tale. 

For, crew by crew in his rages, 
And man by man through deceit. 

He has reckoned their best scant wages, 
And to-night he cries for the fleet. 

The good fleet sailed when the morning 
Laughed and beckoned them forth; 

Never a bird gave warning. 

Nor a whisper from out the North. 

They are cunning in wind and weather, 
But what may the wisest know 



When sea and sky together 
Are a sightless waste of snow? 

From shoreward and seaward driven, 
From skyward a falUng cloud, 

Immeasurable, unriven, 
Gathers the frozen shroud? 

Headland and beacon hiding. 

Liner from fishing-boat; 
Sailor from sailor dividing, 

Coiling round eyes and throat. 

• •••••« 

Ashore the wind goes wailing 
And the twisted cedars moan; 

In vigil unavailing 
The women sit like stone. 

They shall find their voice of sorrow 
When the wild, white nights are past; 

When, some golden April morrow, 
Glutted and glad at last, 

The sea that quiet lingers 

And smiles round the beacon-head. 
With pitiful lips and fingers 

Fondles his hundred dead. 
1898 



[io8] 



RIVER AND BIRD 

FLOWETH the river still and strong; 
Flitteth the bird swift-winged along 
Its crested wave with joyous song. 

The bird is a creature of air and light; 
Skyward she taketh her circling flight, 
Leaving the broad stream out of sight. 

What though the mighty river frets 
With broken voice? Of long regrets 
Light hearts know little. The bird forgets. 

Weary at last of all things fair; 
Weary of soaring everywhere; 
Weary of heaven, and earth, and air; 

Discontent in the song she sings — 
Cometh the bird from her wanderings 
Back to the river to dip her wings. 



[ 109] 



Stealeth the noon-hush far and wide; 
Smileth the sun on the river's tide; 
Dreameth the bird in the shade beside. 



My love is the river still and strong; 
Thy heart is the bird that flits along 
Wave and ripple, with joyous song. 

1881 



[no] 



DESTINY 

A NOISOME thing that crawls by 
covert path, 
For glad, unfearing feet to lie in wait; 
No part in summer's fellowship it hath, 
From mirth and love and music alienate. 

Yet once it flashed across the close, brown 
grass 
In the noon sun, and, as it quivered 
there, 
The spell of beauty over it did pass. 
Making it kin with earth and light and 
air. 

I knew that Life's imperial self decrees 
That this, the loathliest of living things, 

By patient ways of cycled centuries. 
Slow creeping, shall at last attain to 
wings. 



[Ill] 



A JOURNEY 

UPROSE the Day when Night lay dead, 
She turned not back to kiss his cheek, 
But o'er the sombre eastern peak 
She soared, and touched it into red. 

Her strong wings scattered mist and cloud, 
As swiftly toward the highest blue. 
Unhindered, radiant, she flew. 

She sang for joy; she laughed aloud. 

"The midmost heaven," she cried, "is 
mine! 

The midmost heaven and half the earth. 

A million joys I bring to birth. 
Upon a million lovers shine! 

"I paint the grape, I gild the corn, 
I float the lilies on the lake, 
I set a-thrill in field and brake 

Fine strains of tiny flute and horn. 



[II2] 

"Ah, it is sweet," she said, and passed, 
Exulting still, down the sheer slope 
Of afternoon. Her heart of hope 

Went with her, dauntless, till, at last, 

Upon the far low-lying range 

Of hills, she spread a crimson cloud; 

From the pale mists she tore a shroud, 
And, sinking, faint with sense of change, 

She seemed to see a face bend o'er 
With kind, familiar eyes. She said: 
"Can it be you I left for dead.'' 

Can it be Night.?" and spoke no more. 

Night wrapped her in his mantle gray; 

He kissed the quivering lids that slept; 

He bowed his silver head and wept — 
"How could she know, my love, my Day.''" 

1889 



[113] 



I 



GHOSTS 

SLEPT last night and dreamed, 
I woke and cried, 
For in my sleep it seemed, 
Close by my side. 
Walked still and slow the old days that 
have died. 

All ghostly slow they passed. 

All ghostly still; 
Of old who fled so fast, 
With life a-thrill, 
With laughing lips and eyes, with eager 
will. 

So ghostlike, yet the same. 

Each dear dead day. 
Softly I called her name 
And bade her stay; 
Softly she turned and smiled and went her 
way. 



[114] 



ANSWERED 

I MARVEL how youth could be bold 
to say: 
"If but this thing might come my heart 

were blessed;" 
To offer every treasure life possessed, 
Gladly, in one supreme exchange. 

To-day, 
I give God thanks, yet know not how to 

bear 
The exceeding bitterness of answered 
prayer. 



[115] 



THE WATCHER AND THE WIND 

THE WATCHER 

WILD singer at my casement, be 
thou still! 
In pity let me sleep; 
For I am weary, and thy voice Is shrill; 

We have no tryst to keep. 
Go on thy way; to gladder hearts than 
mine 
Thy song perchance were glad; 
To me if thou must come, come with sun- 
shine. 
For night is over sad. 

THE WIND 

Nay listen, listen thou so fretfully pleading 
for rest; 

Those whom I rock may sleep: 
I rock drowned men in ocean cradled deep, 

And birds in frozen nest. 



[ii6] 



A SMILING DEMON OF NOTRE 
DAME 

QUIET as are the quiet skies 
He watches where the city lies 
Floating in vision clear or dim 
Through sun or rain beneath his eyes; 
Her songs, her laughter and her cries 
Hour after hour drift up to him. 

Her days of glory or disgrace 

He watches with unchanging face; 

He knows what midnight crimes are done; 

What horrors under summer sun; 

And souls that pass in holy death 

Sweep by him on the morning's breath. 

Alike to holiness and sin 

He feels nor alien nor akin; 

Five hundred creeping mortal years 

He smiles on human joy and tears, 

Man-made, immortal, scorning man; 

Serene, grotesque, Olympian. 



[117] 



PAN AND PSYCHE 

(a painting by sir EDWARD BURNE-JONEs) 

SWEET Psyche, hath thy quest of Love 
So led thee to a sterile land, 
Only to grief and fear at last? 
What stranger this who bends above 
Thy beauty? What unshapely hand 
Hides in the glory of thy hair? 
Pale wanderer, thy long sorrows past, 
May find no solace in those eyes, 
Though wistfully they scrutinize 
Thy face, and, dimly, know it fair. 

Go thou thy way bright Love to find ; 
And in the bliss of his embrace 
Thou shalt forget Pan's dusky face. 
Go thou thy way bright Love to find; 
While Pan, forsaken, like a brute 
Turns to his fare of nut and root; 
Yet change hath passed on the dark mind: 
Nor god nor beast now, from his flute 
Low human music haunts the wind. 



[ii8] 



THE MADONNA 

THE years may enter not her shrine; 
Forever fair and young she stands, 
And with her gracious, girlish hands 
Folds tenderly the child divine. 

Her lips are warm with mother-love 
And blessedness, and from her eyes 
Looks the mute, questioning surprise 

Of one who hears a voice above 

Life's voices, — from the throng apart, 
Listens to God's low-whispered word 
(Strange message by no other heard), 

And keeps his secret in her heart. 

Sweet maiden-mother, years have fled 
Since the great painter dropped his 

brush. 
Left earth's loud praise for heaven's kind 
hush, 
While men bewailed him, early dead, — 



["9] 

Yet mothers kneel before thee still 
Uplifting happy hearts; or, wild 
With cruel loss, reach toward thy child 

Void arms for the Christ-love to fill. 

Time waits without the sacred spot 

Where fair and young the mother stands; 
Time waits, and bars with jealous hands 

The door where years may enter not. 



[ I20] 



HOLY EARTH 

ALICE GORDON GULICK 

Buried in the Civil Cemetery, Madrid 

BLEAK burial place of the unshriven 
dead, 
Where exile, heretic, and felon lie: 
Here never dirge is sung, nor prayer is said, 
Nor priestly blessing; yet stray flowers burn 
red 
Above great hearts that found it good 
to die. 
The wind, complaining, may not break 
their rest. 
For outcast and forgotten slumber deep; 
But the little, nameless babies, unmothered 
and unblessed. 
Are crying softly, softly in their sleep. 

Honored to-night and hallowed is the spot. 
Because of one who comes its guest to be, 
Who knew no alien race nor alien lot, ■ 



[121] 

Who chose her grave with these whom 
earth forgot, 
Bringing them fellowship from over sea. 
The sweet wind sings above their place of 
rest, 
And wrong and shame and sorrow slum- 
ber deep; 
And the little, nameless babies, mothered 
at last and blessed. 
Are laughing softly, softly in their sleep. 



1903 



[ 122] 



A GREETING 

MY day was sordid and perplexed, 
Close circled by the commonplace; 
And late I walked with spirit vexed, 

And sense of self-disgrace; 
For life and I were out of tune; 
I did not see the rose-like flush; 
I did not feel the kindly hush 
Of waning afternoon. 

Its glory all around me lay, 

While yet I paced in discontent; 

When, suddenly, from far away, 
A quivering flash was sent; 

It thrilled my heart, it stayed my feet, 
A beacon sure and glad it shone. 
The last red gleam of day upon 

Your westward window. Sweet. 

And straight I knew the world was fair; 
I heard a robin's prophet song; 



[123] 

I drank the bright wine of the air; 

My pulse grew quick and strong; 
Not wasted seemed the day's work done; 

Not hopeless seemed the thing I sought; 

The far-off heights of toil and thought 
Seemed worthy to be won. 



[ 124] 



COMMUNION 

DUSK of a lowering evening, 
Chill of a northern zone, 
Pitiful press of worn faces, 
And an exiled heart alone. 

Warm, as with sun of the tropic. 
Keen, as with salt of the sea, 

Sweet, as with breath of blown roses, 
Cometh thy thought to me. 



[125] 



I 



ENTRE NOUS 
TALK with you of foolish things and 



wise, 



Of persons, places, books, desires and 
aims. 
Yet all our words a silence underlies. 
An earnest, vivid thought that neither 
names. 

Ah! what to us were foolish talk or wise? 
Were persons, places, books, desires or 
aims. 
Without the deeper sense that underlies. 
The sweet encircling thought that neither 
names ? 

1882 



[126] 



INSCRIPTIONS 

I. IN A BOOK OF OLD SONGS 

DEAR, were you in a garden old, 
Loved of brave troubadours 
Who praised your hair's bewildering gold. 

That glimmers and allures. 
The greatest, wondering on your face 

Between the ilex trees. 
Might touch his lute and thrill the place 
With sweeter songs than these. 

II. IN THE BOOK THAT YOU HAVE READ 

I NEED no penciled margin line; 
By subtler emphasis. 
Page after page, I can divine 
Your thought of that and this. 

I know that here your grave lips smiled 
The smile that Beauty brings; 

And here you listened where some wild 
Age-smitten forest sings. 



[ 127 ] 

Here your brow wore the world-old pain 

No poet may forget; 
And here you stayed to read again; 

Here, read through lashes wet. 

So, leaf by leaf, until, I deem. 

Your darkened eyes forsook 
One shining page, because your dream 

Was lovelier than the book. 



[128] 



WITH A COPY OF WHARTON'S 
"SAPPHO" 

And of Sappho few, but all roses. — Meleager. 

ROSES, full-hearted as of old 
When Meleager garlanded 
Blossom and bough of poets dead, 
Lie here, and with them, daintily, 
Frail scattered petals, crimson, gold, 
Drift to the feet of you and me 
Unfaded, — even such vain, brief things 

(Roses of Psestum, Helen's tears) 
As lover loves, and poet sings. 

And wise earth hoards through myriad 

years, 
Careless when some star disappears. 

Lover and poet, to your hands 
Red rose and golden rose I trust, 

Attar distilled in sunnier lands. 
Curled petal, sweet immortal dust. 

1904 



[ 129] 



A HEARTH-FIRE VERSE 

A DIM, drowned world, where, dull 
and cold, 
Earth men and women groped of old; 
A live coal brought in fennel reed 
From the forbidden heaven of Zeus; 
And swift on every hearthstone lit 
Sky-flame for homely human use; 
Sky-joy for drooping spirit's need. 

Solace for those who lonely sit, 
Loud mirth for folk who feast and sing, 
Welcome for tired folk wandering. 

Gift of the Titan's heavenly quest, 
Keep this house ever bright and blest. 

December 13, 1904 



[i3o] 



FOR A BIRTHDAY 

CORNELIA FRANCES BATES, AET. 79 

LONG ago sweet songs were sung 
y Of fair ladies ever young; 
Weary years of war might be, 
Wearier wanderings over sea. 
Exile in sad lands and strange, 
Yet their beauty might not change. 
Not a single word is told 
Of a Helen who grows old; 
Not her thousand sorrows dare 
Dull the light of Deirdre's hair; 
Iseult, lovelier than report. 
Maiden in her father's court, 
Grown world-radiant shall be seen 
Through all time, Iseult the Queen. 

Deirdre, Helen, Iseult are 
Fadeless, shining star by star; 
If their poets I might bring, 
Skilled to touch the harp and sing, 



Lady, I would bid them praise 

Your brave crown of golden days; 

Blithe and sweet their song should be, — 

Song of her who graciously 

With each soft year younger grows, 

As the earth with every rose. 

December 7, 1905 



[ 132 ] 



TO 

Jl/TADONNA mia! if in truth 
■^ '-*■ Our Raphael from heaven's palaces 

Might lean across the centuries 
That have not marred his glorious youth, 

Nor dimmed the lustre of his hair, 
Nor dulled his pencil, rather grown 
Diviner, working near God's throne, 

Even he might find a study fair 

As his last fresco in the skies. 

Might f)ause untouched of mortal taint 
One infinite half hour to paint 

The motherhood in your dear eyes. 



[ 133 ] 



METEMPSYCHOSIS 

I WATCH thy face, Sweetheart, with 
half belief 
In olden tales of the soul's wayfaring; 
I marvel from what past thy young eyes 
bring 
Their heritage of long entailed grief. 

I watch thy face and soft as through a 
dream 
I see not thee, but some fair, fated Greek, 
Whose carven lips grow flesh straight- 
way and speak 
Stern words and sad, with perfect curves 
that seem 

But as the cynic sweetness of thy smile, 
Set quivering over tears In self-despite. 
Again I watch by mystic taper-light, 

Where a pale saint doth kneel a weary 
while; 



[134] 

I hear the murmured passion of her prayer, 
Imploring heaven for boon of sacrifice; 
I read behind the rapture of her eyes 

A look which thou didst teach me unaware. 

The visions pass; the light, but now so 
faint. 
Flames red and sudden over field and 

brook; 
Thy face is turned, full fronting me with 
look 
Worn never yet of cynic nor of saint; 

And now amid fierce Northern battle-glare, 
Where wounded heroes wait the gods' 

decree, 
The Valkyr rides, and o'er her brow I see 

The floating golden glory of thy hair. 

Sweet spirit, pilgrim through the cycled 
years. 
Dear though thou art I may not bid 

thee stay; 
I bless thee whatsoever chartless way 
Thou goest, God-impelled. I have no 
fears. 



[135] 

I know thou wilt surrender not to pain; 
Thou wilt look never forth from coward 

eyes; 
Thou would'st not barter truth for Para- 
dise; 
Thou could'st not think that ease and 
peace were gain. 

Far off, I know, the darkness shall be 
light 
For him who scorneth to make term's 

with Fate; 
Far off for thee, Beloved, there must wait 
The answered question, and the finished 
fight. 



1891 



[136] 



A LETTER 

THE last light falls across your pic- 
tured face 
(Unanswerlngsweet face, half turned away), 
Withdrawing still, as down the west apace 
Fades too the profile of June's longest day. 
I wonder, did you watch an hour ago 
While dropped the sun behind the moun- 
tain line? 
And did you think how it, retreating so, 
Must blaze along this level world of mine? 
Love, what have I to do with sunset skies, 
How red soever? All the world for me 
Spreads eastward, and before my spirit's 

eyes, 
Set fair between the mountains and the sea. 
Doth stand the distant city of my heart. 

Forgive me if I tell myself in vain: 
"There is no power in this wide world to 
part 



'[ 137 ] 

Our souls. Avail not time nor space nor 

pain, 
For love is unconditioned," Dear, to-night, 
I am like an unlessoned child, who cries 
For the sweet sensual things of touch and 

sight; 
I want to read the gladness in your eyes; 
I want your voice though but to speak my 

name; 
My heart uncomforted, unsatisfied. 
Hath put my best philosophy to shame. 

Yet if you crossed the shadows to my 

side, — 
No vision, but your very self indeed, — 
I should not ask what kindly fate had 

brought 
My heart's desire. I should not find at 

need 
Expression for one eager waiting thought, 
Not one of all the words I have to say. 
I should but lean my cheek upon your 

hand. 
And hold you close, the old, mute, childish 

way, 
And you would comfort me and understand. 



[138] 

But not to-night, — I will be patient, Sweet, 
Sit silently, and let life have its will. 
The tread of the last passer in the street 
Sounds with the chiming hour, then all is 

still. 
Save that the little fountain in the park 
Sings lazily the same old summer song 
You knew in quiet nights when winds lay 

furled. 
I needs must dream alone here in the dark 
A little while, to-morrow go forth strong. 
Lifting the shield of Love against the world. 

June 19, 1888 



[ 139 ] 



TO-DAY'S DAUGHTER 

WRITTEN FOR THE GRADUATING CLASS AT 
SMITH COLLEGE, JUNE, 1885 



OVERY fair and strong she stands 
to-day. 
This youngest daughter to receive her 
dower; 
I see the wise World-mother smiHng lay 
Gift after gift before her, bid her choose 
The richest, purest, rarest, lest she lose 
One happiness, one power. 

II 

Thou wise World-mother! it was long to 
wait 
Hoarding thy treasures while the slow 
years passed, 
Keeping thy cherished plan inviolate 

With thine inscrutable, sweet smile, until 
This golden hour has risen to fulfil 
Thy dearest wish at last 



[ i4o] 



III 

For this thy child, a woman earnest-eyed, 
Who wears thy gracious favors wor- 
thily, 
Pledges her honest faith, her constant pride, 
To live her life as one who holds in trust 
God's gold to give again, who fearless 
must 
Face the great days to be. 

IV 

Naught is denied her: mind alert, intent; 
Eyes that look deep into the heart of 
things; 
A skilful hand to shape; a firm will bent 
On purposes that have no petty ends; 
A strength that falters not for foes nor 
friends; 
A soul that has swift wings. 



Deep has she read of poet and of priest; 
Wit of philosopher and lore of sage; 



I HI ] 

And science, with its growth of great from 
least, 
Who bids earth's cowering, secret things 

appear. 
And stand out in this latter sunshine, 
clear 
As type upon God's page. 

VI 

Yet finds she wiser teachers, friends more 
dear. 
In shadowy wood-path and on clover 
slope; 
When the June twilight slow and still 
creeps near, 
And rocks put on their purple majesty; 
When stars across the dark tell glim- 
merlngly 
Her happy horoscope. 

VII 

And sometimes, when the low moon lies 
asleep 
On its cloud-bed, like a fair child, play- 
spent, 



[ 142] 

Across the river-fields and up the steep 
Come, silent stealing through the silver 

mist, 
Strange visitors, whose holy lips have 
kissed 
Death's own, yet are content. 

VIII 

Wide eyes that seem to bring from far-off 
years 
Their loves and hopes and tragedies 
again; 
And voices sadly cadenced to young 
ears, 
Yet musical with old-time gentleness; 
And smiles that half conceal and half 
confess 
Some unforgotten pain. 

IX 

And one with voice that hath a dauntless 
ring, 
Saith, "From thy life, Sweet, may the 
gods avert 



['43] 

The need of this strange gift I dare to bring, 
A Roman woman's strength, who will 

not spare 
A quivering death-wound at the heart 
to wear. 
And say it doth not hurt." 



Speaketh a voice whose sound is of the sea: 
"Oft have I paced the beach, while 
sheer above 
Towered the rocks, waiting immutably 
As my heart waited. From Inarime, 
Across the years, Vittoria brings to-day 
Her gift of tireless love." 

XI 

As starlight comes through myriad miles 
of space, 
Undimmed, untarnished, waxing never 
old. 
So shineth (nor can centuries efface) 
One light set in the sky of time afar, 
Thy soul, Antigone, that like a star 
Burneth with flame of gold. 



[ 144] 

XII 

Antigone, what woman were not glad 

To feel against her life the touch of 
thine ? 
To meet thine eyes, so unafraid, if sad? 
To hear thy words, to clasp thy potent 

hand ? 
To read thy womanhood as a command 
To sacrifice divine? 

XIII 

Yet past nor present can avail to fill 

This woman's thoughts, who leans and 
listens best 
To voices of the future, calling shrill. 
With strain and stress of troubled des- 
tinies, 
Contentsheleavesherdreamsandreveries 
For life's sublime unrest. 

XIV 

With steadfast step she walks in darkened 
ways 
Where women's curses sound, and 
children's cries: 



[145] 

Her gentleness shall win, her strength shall 
raise, 
Her love shall cleanse, her righteous 

words shall burn. 
And wasted, piteous baby-lips shall 
learn 
Glad laughter from her eyes. 



XV 

Shadow shall shrink, and sunlight shine for 
her; 
And love shall touch her life like a 
caress; 
And loyal human hearts shall minister 
To her heart's need, who hath for joy, 

for pain. 
For sorrow's mourning, ay! and for sin's 
stain 
Unending tenderness. 

XVI 

Around her closes, quivering and 
tense, 
Life's narrow circle of perplexities; 



[146] 

The clamoring hours, the hurrying events; 
Yet shall she pass through tumult and 

through crowd 
Serene, as one who hears God's voice 
ring loud 
Across far silences. 



Who climbs life's mountain walks with 
tardy tread. 
For love of flowers that smile about his 
feet. 
For love of pines that whisper overhead. 
For love of wandering bird-calls, shy 
and sweet; 
Yet where the birds come not, beyond the 
pines. 
Past rock and steep and cloud, the final 

height 
Forever rises silent, stainless white. 
Where shadow never falls, where latest 
shines 
The lingering light. 



[147] 



THE COMMON CHORD 

A POET sang, so light of heart was he, 
A song that thrilled with joy in 
every word; 
It quivered with ecstatic melody; 
It laughed as sunshine laughs upon the sea; 
It caught a measure from each lilting 
bird; 
But though the song rang out exultantly, 
The world passed by, with heavy step 

and loud, 
None heeding, save that, parted from 
the crowd. 

Two lovers heard. 

There fell a day when sudden sorrow 

smote 
The poet's life. Unheralded it came. 
Blotting the sun-touched page whereon he 

wrote 



[ 148 ] 

His golden song. Ah! then, from all re- 
mote, 
He sang the grief that had nor hope nor 
name 
In God's ear only; but one sobbing note 
Reached the world's heart, and swiftly, 

in the wake 
Of bitterness and passion and heart- 
break. 

There followed fame. 

1884 



[ 149 ] 



SIDNEY LANIER 

"Let my name perish: the poetry is good poetry, and 
the music is good music; and beauty dieth not, and the 
heart that needs it will find it." — Sidney Lanier (letter 
to his wife). 

BEFORE his eyes forever shone afar 
The beauty that his strong soul loved 
and sought, 
And fast he followed it nor looked behind; 
No way too long, too rugged, nor too dark 
For his intent, fixed will. Close after him 
Sorrow and Pain sped on in swift pursuit; 
He felt their hard hands clutch to hold him 

back; 
Their breath was hot upon his fevered 

cheek; 
His eyes were weary, and his feet dropped 

blood; 
He fell at last, and yet, they were too 

late. 
For folded close In his weak hand he held 



[I50] 

The prize their strength was impotent to 

wrest. 
Upon his forehead, growing white and chill, 
His Love, his Art laid gentle hands that 

blessed, 
And on his spirit fell his Master's peace. 

1884 



[151] 



TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

AM not I too a poet, though so low? 
A little one whose songs are but 
child-cries ; 
A half-fledged sparrow who with weak 

wings tries 
The God-wide air that larks have win- 
nowed, — flies 
For shame beneath the hedges. 

This I know 
When in a certain book to-night I read 
How a true poet pleads : Call him not dead. 
Who, straying through the fields of Para- 
dise, 
Hath met with Keats and known him by 

his eyes, — - 
Sudden my own eyes filled and my heart 

said: 
"O Poet, what if in that world divine 
Our Keats should know those poet-eyes 
of thine, 



[152] 

And claim with thee a spirit's brotherhood 
In love of beauty? What if Dante should 
(Hearing: On earth this bard writ The 

New Day) 
Turn his grave, searching eyes on thee and 

say: 
* Thy young world hath fair ladies, sure, 

and good. 
And thou hast been Love's liegeman true 

like me. 
But walked, methinks, a somewhat easier 

way.' " 

When God's true poets meet above the 
skies. 
Above all wrong and failure, it may be 
They deign to speak, with gentle words 
and wise, 
Of those left singing yet a little while 
(Here in the shadow, singing to the sun) 
They weigh the good attempted, the good 
done, 
And, hearing a true note, look down and 
smile. 

January, l888 



[153] 



TO A DEAD POET 

UNCHANGED, serene, the Roman 
sky 
Watches where Shelley's ashes He; 
About his grave slow ivy creeps, 
On stone and wall and cypress sleeps 
The silentness of four score years; 
Yet, somewhere, Shelley's spirit hears, 
Indignant, sorrowful, elate. 
The story of the Narva Gate; 
And, somewhere, Shelley's eyes look forth 
On that white city in the North, ' 
Beholding how the snow lies red 
With blood of her most holy dead. 

Tumultuous heart, yet wise as age 
To read the far, sublime presage! 
Though snow, new fallen, fold away 
That piteous blood of yesterday; 
Though a mad people, blind, betrayed. 
Wreak blood with blood, thou, unafraid, 
Must see no less a lovelier earth 
Slowly from chaos brought to birth. 



['54] 

These many years the joyous sea 

Encircles reborn Italy, 

But thy clear message flashes still, 

Kindling men's hearts to deathless will, 

Lighting men's holier thought and speech, 

Yet Impotent alway to teach 

One lesson to crowned bigotry. 

prophet, prophet! dost thou see 

How "Northern Anarchs" cringe and hide 
To-day, like peasants terrified. 
Under the patient, scornful sun, 
Bourbon by Romanoff outdone? 

1 think thou hast no eyes for these, 
So transient are earth's tyrannies; 
Only the stricken hope divine 
Reaches that high abode of thine; 
And thou art glad among thy peers 
To see men offer blood and tears, 
Exile and life, in sacrifice. 

Even as of old. 

Thy southern skies 
Know the keen call of battling truth; 
Poet, In thine immortal youth. 
Come back to us one hour and sing 
The grief and glory of this thing! 

January 23, 1905 



[155] 



GOD AND THE SINGER 



GOD sat In heaven when all the harps 
were still; 
God leaned and listened, listened toward 

the earth; 
Tall angels stood with finger upon lip. 
Only the stars were singing as at first. 

God's voice in heaven was like a mourning 

stream: 
"I hear the sound of laughter among men, 
I hear the sound of trade, of war, of grief; 
I miss the sound of singing among men." 

God called his swiftest angel: " Gabriel, 
Go seek me out a singer on the earth, 
And bid him make me music of men's deeds." 

When Gabriel's wings were silent In far air, 
God said: "Let play," and all the seven- 
stringed harps 
Made joy in heaven. 



[156] 

II 

The singer knelt before God's throne In 

heaven, 
Abashed and weary, with a broken lute; 
And all the harps were still because God 

spoke. 
God's voice in heaven was like the wistful sea: 
"My singer, I have waited for thy song." 
The singer spoke in heaven: "Have pity, 

Lord! 
Thine angel bade me wander through the 

world. 
To make thee music of the deeds of men. 
And I went gladly, ever fain to sing; 
And my lute whispered : ' Master, let us make 
Songs of brave men in battle, fighting wrong 
And loving death, for such songs please 

God's ear.' 
I stood among the greatest of earth's folk. 
Where armies mustered, and where ships 

set sail, 
And where the wise took counsel, so to hear 
Some theme of glory, and beneath my hand 
I felt my lute a-thrill." The singer bent 
Lower, and hid his face from God in heaven. 



[157] 

"I learned no theme of honor and great 

death; 
Lord, strong folk trample weak folk for 

bright gold, 
And wise folk outwit simple for bright gold, 
And liberty is trafficked for bright gold, 
And no man thinks of glory, nor of thee." 
God bowed his head in heaven; the angels 

wept. 
"I might not make thee muslcof men's deeds. 
But my lute whispered: 'Master, let us 

make. 
Since God is love, a new song of men's love-' 
And I went gladly, thinking how for love 
Bird mates with bird and man with maiden 

still, 
As when the world was young. Beneath 

my hand 
I felt my lute strings warm. But, when I 

sang, 
Men laughed aloud in the great market- 
place, 
Crying: 'Thou fool! We sell love for 

bright gold!' 
Then, Lord, my lute strings broke under 

my hand. 



[158] 

The lute no more gave counsel, but my 

heart 
Said: 'Yonder men are praying in the 

church. 
Go, and make God sweet music of men's 

prayers.' 
And I went gladly, knowing song is prayer. 
But when I knelt before thine altar, Lord, 
My heart grew wise and terrible, and said: 
'That priest beneath the cross serves for 

bright gold. 
That kneeling prince is perjured for bright 

gold, 
And poor men beg and shiver at the door.' 
Then I crept forth between the beggars, 

dumb. 

"I might not make thee music of men's 
prayers, 

Lord, nor of men's loves, nor of men's 

deeds. 
Behold! my lute is broken, and my heart." 

God's voice in heaven was like a silver reed: 
"Arise, my singer, thou must forth again; 

1 know that there is music on my earth." 



[159] 

The singer stood and spoke out bold in 

heaven: 
"O Lord, if thou wilt send me forth again, 
I will not go to the great folk and strong. 
Find me some simple country on thy 

earth, 
The least and poorest, so its fields be green. 
Where I may watch men laugh, and weep, 

and love; 
Where I may heal my heart, and mend my 

lute, 
And sing to thee of birds and beasts and 

flowers, 
And sing to thee of clouds and winds and 

seas; 
And when I have forgotten greed and gold 
May haply make thee music of men's 



hearts, 



>) 



And now all heaven grew fairer, for God 
smiled. 

God called his angel of the sweetest name: 
"Go, Raphael, thou shalt lead my singer 

forth. 
Find him my poorest land where fields are 

green. 



[i6o] 

That he may heal his heart, and mend his 
lute, 

And sing to me of birds and beasts and 
flowers, 

And sing to me of clouds and winds and 
seas. 

And, after, make me music of men's hearts," 

Singer and angel bowed before God's 
throne 

And went their way. Then all the seven- 
stringed harps 

Made joy in heaven. 

Ill 

Again God sat in heaven when harps were 

still. 
God leaned and listened, listened toward 

the earth; 
The angels stood with finger upon lip; 
Only the stars were singing as at first. 
God's voice in heaven was like the wind in 

June: 
"I hear my singer in a small, green land. 
Listen, he makes me music of men's hearts." 

1902 



THE SHEPHERDS 



THE SHEPHERDS 

First Shepherd, a youth: 

I saw a wonder as I came along: 
Out of the sky there dropped a shining 
song. 

I do not know if stars in heaven have 

wings; 

But look, and listen! there it soars and 
sings. 

Second Shepherd, an old man: 

My eyes are dazzled, for the light is 
strong. 

The Angel: 

I bring good tidings, Shepherds, have 
no fear: 

The Saviour of the whole world is come 
near. 

A child is born to-night in Bethlehem 
Who brings great joy to all, and most to 

them 
Who are most poor. The King! The 

King is here! 

163 



[i64] 

First Shepherd: 

Where is his palace? Can we find the 
way? 

Second Shepherd: 

We have had kings enough. Must we 

go pay 
More taxes to a new one? 

The Angel: 

Come and bring 
The love of simple hearts unto this king. 

Third Shepherd^ a man of middle age: 
I could bring only tears where a child lay. 

First Shepherd {aside): 

Why can he not forget his year-old pain? 

Second Shepherd {aside): 

Hearts that break slowly will not heal 
again. 

The Angel: 

Good-will, good-will and peace to all the 

earth! 
Born in a cattle stable, lo! his birth 
Is holy. King of Love, he comes to reign. 



[i65] 

Third Shepherd: 

When harvests fail, and all the sheep 
are dead, 

And little children cry and cry for bread. 

Grow tired at last, and sicken and lie 
still, 

Will any sing of peace there and good- 
will 

To us who watch beside an empty bed? 

First Shepherd: 

I think that when the King of Love is 

grown, 
And hearts of men are loving like his 

own, 
He who has gold will with his brother 

share; 
There will be bread and wine and fire to 

spare; 
For who can love, yet sit and feast 

alone ? 

Second Shepherd: 

Quick let us go! These dim old eyes 

would see 
A king who comes in peace and poverty. 



[i66] 

First Shepherd: 

I see a hundred white stars drifting down; 
They circle yonder over Bethlehem town. 

Chorus of Angels: 

Glory to God! Good-will to men shall 
be. 



THE DWARF'S QUEST 
A BALLAD 



THE DWARF'S QUEST 

SIR DAGONET was sad of heart; 
Beneath the city gate 
He watched King Arthur's knights depart; 
He watched In love and hate. 

He saw great tears fall from the eyes 

Of Lancelot and the King; 
He thought: "Apart the sweet Queen lies, 

And knows no comforting." 

Sir Perclvale and Galahad 

Rode by In shining mall; 
He marked their eyes, assured and glad, 

And cursed the Holy Grail. 

Though many passed and saw him not, . 

He hoarded, In his pain, 
A smile from sad Sir Lancelot, 

Three sweet words from Gawaln. 

King Arthur's fool was Dagonet, 
An impish, mocking thing; 

169 



[ lyo] 

His wont by day to carp and fret, 
At night to dance and sing. 

The foot and fist of rude Sir Kay 
He bore with jest and sneer; 

But wept to meet on any day 
The eyes of Guinevere. 

That night he sat without the gate, 

Close by the city wall, 
Till King and court, returning late. 

Climbed sadly toward the Hall. 

He thought of all the good knights bent 
On unknown, wandering ways; 

He thought of feast and tournament. 
And laughter of old days. 

He would not enter with his King; 

He heard the warder call. 
Yet waited, crouched and shivering, 

Beside the city wall. 

Crooked and weak was Dagonet, 

What might to him avail 
The hope whereon high hearts were set, 

To find the Holy Grail .? 



[171] 

Yet ice and flame were in his breast; 

He hid his curling lip, 
And wept for fierce desire to quest 

With the great Fellowship. 

On nameless, shining paths afar, 

Where'er the vision bade, 
He saw them ride, — saw like a star 

The face of Galahad. 

Then on his heart fell unforgot, 

More soft than April rain, 
The smile of sad Sir Lancelot, 

The sweet words of Gawain. 

And Dagonet the jester laid 

His face against the stone. 
And prayed to Him who once had prayed 

In blood and tears alone; 

And lo! a strange voice reached his ears, 

Borne on soft-drifting wings; 
'Twas gentler than Queen Guinevere's, 

'T was kinglier than the King's. 

It spake: "Thou foolish one, look up! 
Believe, and be thou glad; 



[ 172 ] 

There waits one vision of the Cup 
For thee and Galahad." 

But Dagonet cried: "Lord, to me 

What may thy grace avail, 
Since, late, in wrath and misery, 

I cursed the Holy Grail?" 

Low in the dust knelt Dagonet; 

The sweet voice filled the air: 
"Thy cursing lips I do forget, 

Because of thy heart's prayer." 

Next day 't was told through Camelot, 

With pity or with jest. 
That Dagonet the dwarf came not 

Because he rode the Quest. 

Next day and next, for many a day, 

Sir Dagonet rode hard; 
Sometimes deep forest blurred his way, 

Or swollen torrent barred; 

But everywhere the bright spring laid 

Her gold about his feet; 
And every hour the high Quest made 

Hope at his heart stir sweet. 



[ 173] 

At hermitage and castle gate 

He asked, alway in vain: 
Nor Lancelot had passed of late, 

Nor Bors, nor good Gawain. 

Now once It chanced that his path ran 

Along a riverside, . 
Till, where a chestnut wood began. 

He saw the ways divide. 

And close beneath the roadside cross 
There lay a wounded knight; 

His blood was black upon the moss, 
And dimmed his armor bright. 

Sir Dagonet bent low and gazed 
In eyes that knew him not; 

Then, weeping, to his heart he raised 
The head of Lancelot. 



Past midnight, when the moon was set, 

And utter dark the night. 
Round Lancelot and Dagonet 

There shone a sudden light. 



[i74] 

And in the light, soft-footing, came 
Four maidens grave and pale; 

In lifted hands that burned like flame, 
One bore the Holy Grail. 

Unveiled the Holy Chalice gleamed; 

Sweet odors filled the air; 
The roadside cross an altar seemed, 

The winds were chant and prayer. 

The dwarf knelt low in that blest place, 

Adored, and trembled not; 
Then, with swift sorrow on his face, 

He turned to Lancelot. 

He cried: "My lord, awake and see! 

Methinks thy quest is done! 
The Holy Grail doth shine on thee 

More bright than moon or sun!" 

Sir Lancelot groaned, but spake no word; 

He had nor voice, nor will; 
Perchance the heavy eyelids stirred 

One moment, and were still. 

Swift as it came the vision went; 
The dwarf moaned bitterly: 



[175] 

"My answered prayer is punishment 
Since my lord might not seel" 

He groped to find where the cross stood, 

There was no ray of light; 
He prayed: "Thou to the fool art good, 

Be gracious to the knight." 

He cried and prayed beneath the cross, 
With foolish words and wild; 

But Lancelot upon the moss 
Slept like a little child. 

And in the dawning of the day 

The dwarf forgot to weep, 
Seeing how fair Sir Lancelot lay, 

A-smiling in his sleep. 

Sir Dagonet fell on his knee; 

He fingered head and limb; 
And said: "The Grail was shown to me. 

Its healing was for him. 

"He will awaken whole and strong 

As ever he hath been; 
He need not know his trance was long. 

Nor what the fool hath seen." 



[176] 

He sprang to horse: "Farewell, Sir Knight, 

Thy high vow shall not fail; 
Some happier day thou shalt alight 

Upon the Holy Grail." 

When birds from sky and tree and ground 

Sang loud and broke his rest, 
Sir Lancelot rose blithe and sound 

To fare upon his quest. 

But fast while morning hours were cool, 
And slow when noon waxed hot. 

Sir Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, 
Rode back to Camelot. 

At Camelot, with boisterous cries, 

Men asked him of his quest, 
Till something in the rider's eyes 

Silenced the merry jest. 

Sir Dagonet dwelt with the court; 

He mused on what had been; 
By night he made them goodly sport; 

By day he served the Queen. 



[ 177] 

One slow, still morn of summer's prime, 
Through fields of yellow grain. 

With saddened brow, before his time, 
Rode back the good Gawain. 

But when the long nights of the year 
Darkened, and word came not, 

Sir Dagonet and Guinevere 
Prayed for Sir Lancelot. 



Like swallows when winds first blow sweet, 
The knights came one by one; 

Each told of travail and defeat, 
And how his quest was done. 

Till, when the third bright June befell. 

And nightingales were glad. 
From out the east came Bors to tell 

Of young Sir Galahad, 

How won was the most Holy Quest: 

How Percivale and he 
Were laid 'neath sacred earth to rest 

In Sarras over sea. 



[178] 

For Galahad brave eyes were wet, 

And gentle Percivale; 
None ever heard how Dagonet 

Achieved the Holy Grail. 



THE DAUGHTER OF JORIO 

A PASTORAL TRAGEDY 

From the Italian of Gabriels D'Annhnzio 
(unfinished) 



The Persons of the Tragedy 

Lazaro di Roio, Candia della Leonessa, Aligi, Splendore, 
Favetta, Ornella, Maria di Giave, Vienda. 

Teodula di Cinzio, La Cinerella, Monica della Cogna, Anna 
di Bova, Felavia Sesara, La Catalana delle Tre 
Bisacce, Maria Cora. 

Mila di Codra. 

Feme di Nerfa, lenne dell' Eta, lona di Midia. 

The Old Herb Woman, the Treasure Seeker, the Saint of 
the Mountains, the Demoniac Boy. 

A Shepherd, another Shepherd. 

A Reaper, another Reaper. 

The Crowd. 

Chorus of Kinsfolk, Chorus of Reapers, Chorus of Mourners. 

Scene 
The Country of the Abruzzi, many years ago. 



ACT I 

A room on the ground floor of a rustic 
house. The great door opens upon a sunny 
threshing-floor; and a scarf of scarlet wool 
is stretched across the door to impede pass- 
ers; the scarf is held at one end by a pitch- 
fork and at the other hy a distaff, and 
against one of the lintels hangs a cross of 
wax to protect the house from evil spirits. 
A closed door draped with myrtle is in the 
wall at the right; and against this wall 
stand three wooden chests. At the left, in 
the depth of the wall, is a chimney with a 
deep hood; and a little farther on a small 
door, and near this a loom. 

There are various utensils and pieces of 
furniture about the room, such as chests 
of drawers, benches, shelves, reels, spindles, 
skeins of hemp and wool hanging upon a 
cord stretched between two nails; mortars, 
jars, bowls, salt-jars and flasks made from 
gourds emptied and dried. And there is 
an ancient kneading-trough, on which is 

i8i 



[I82] 

carved an image of Our Lady. There is a 
jug of water and a table. From the ceiling 
hangs by cords a long shelf laden with 
cheeses. Two barred windows five or six 
feet from the floor make light at the sides of 
the great door, and each has its sprig of red 
buckwheat to ward off evil spirits. 

Scene i 

Splendore, Favetta, and Ornella, the three 
sisters, are kneeling in front of the 
three chests that contain the bridal out- 
fit, choosing garments for the bride. 
Their fresh voices are like the morning 
songs of birds. * 

Splendore : 

What wilt thou have, VIenda, dearest? 

Favetta : 

Our Httle sister, newest, nearest! 

Splendore : 

Wilt thou have a gown of woollen ? 
Or wilt thou have one soft and silken, 
All with blossoms overspread. 
Blossoms yellow and blossoms red? 



[i83] 

Ornella, singing : 

Only green I would be wearing, 
To San Giovanni's feast a-faring. 
Green, for by a sweet green way 
One came to woo me on a day. 
Well-a-way, ah, well-a-way! 

Splendore : 

Here is the bodice of broidery. 
And the little silver stomacher; 
Here is the twelve-gored skirt for her 
And here, little sister, look and see 
The necklace a hundred corals long, 
That thy new mother gives to thee! 

Ornella, singing : 

Only of green the drapery 

For the chamber on a wedding-day; 

Well-a-way, ah, well-a-way! 

Favetta : 

What wilt thou have, Vienda, dearest? 

Splendore : 

Our little sister, newest, nearest ! 

Ornella : 

Here are necklace and earrings for the 
bride. 



[i84] 

And a little red ribbon, gayly tied. 
Now the bell goes ringing, ringing, 
The great bell that rings at noon. 

Splendore: 
All the kinsfolk will come soon; 
All the folk, they come a-bringing 
Baskets of the ripe spring wheat, 
And thou art not ready, sweet. 

Ornella : 

The silly sheep on the hillside 
Feeding, does not know 

How the wolf seeks through the valley 
To find where filberts grow. 
Fresh little filberts and pistachio. 

What a bride for early waking! 

Like the little mole she sleeps, 
But he 's up when dawn is breaking. 

And out the dormouse peeps. 
And even the badger who sleeps well. 
O listen, listen to the bell! 

She sings her little song rapidly, then breaks 
into a great laugh; and the others laugh 
with her. 



[i85] 

The three sisters: 
Aligi! Allgi! art thou here? 

Splendore: 
Wilt thou wear clothes of velvet, dear? 

Favetta: 

Would'st thou like to sleep for a century 
With the sleeping beauty, thou and she? 

Splendore: 

Thy father In the fields is reaping, 
Brother mine, since the day-star, peeping. 
Was mirrored bright in the sickle's blade. 
The sickle whose toil is never stayed. 

Favetta: 

And thy mother has put spice in the wine. 
And in the water is anise, fine. 
And cloves are thrust into the meat. 
And the newmade cheese with thyme is 
sweet. 

Splendore: 

And a yearling lamb they killed last 

night. 
His head was spotted black and white. 
He is for the bridegroom and the bride. 



[i86] 

Favetta: 

And the left shoulder is set aside 
For the old prophet, Ustorgio 
Of La Fara, that he may 
Foretell good luck on your wedding- 
day. 

Ornella: 

To-morrow, to-morrow is San Giovanni, 

Brother dear, it is San Giovanni! 

Up to La Plaia I will run 

To see poor San Giovanni's head 

Lie within the rising sun. 

To see, in a platter of bright gold, 

How his blood is bubbling red. 

Favetta: 

Up, Vienda, golden head! 
Wild periwinkles are thine eyes. 
In the harvest-field, new fallen, lies 
The wheat that is like thy golden hair. 

Splendore: 

Listen, listen, what says the mother? 
"Once I had three olive-trees. 
And now a blossoming-plum with these, 
My three daughters, and yet another." - 



[i87] 

Ornella: 

Pale plum-blossom, lazy one, 
Why art thou waiting? Writing the sun 
A little blue letter, that will pray 
Him never, never set to-day? 

She laughs and her sisters laugh with her. 

Scene 2 

From the little door enters their mother, 
Candia della Leonessa. 

Candia: 

Ah, little crickets, chatterers three, 
One in a fury of merry song 
Burst his sides in the poplar-tree. 
Now the cocks will crow no more 
To waken those who sleep too long. 
There '11 be only cicalas singing soon. 
Three cicalas at high noon. 
A chamber they took with a fast-shut 

door 
For a leafy nook in the poplar's shade, 
But the bride hears not a word that's 

said. 
Allgl! Aligi! O my son! 



[i88] 

The door opens and the bridegroom comes in, 
gravely saluting. 

Aligi: 

Praised be Maria and Gesu! 

And you, O mother, who gave to me 

This flesh baptized in the Trinity. 

Mother, blessed may you be! 

Blessed be ye, sisters three. 

Flowers of this blood of mine, 

Forgive, for me, the cross I sign 

On the brow, that, there, the evil one 

May never pass in life or death; 

That flame touch not, nor fiery breath, 

Nor taint of poison, nor any stain; 

That tears bathe not, nor sweat of pain. 

Holy Spirit, Father, Son! 

The sisters cross themselves and gathering 
up the garments pass through the little 
door. Aligi draws near to his mother 
as if under a spell. 

Candia: 

Flesh of my living flesh, I touch thy brow 
With this bread that is made of finest 
wheat, 



[i89] 

Made In the trough that was a century 

old 
Before thy birth, yes, and before my 

birth, 
Rolled out upon the board a century old, 
Moulded with these my hands that 

tended thee. 

I touch thy forehead that it may be pure, 
I touch thy breast that it be without 

pain; 
I touch this shoulder, so, and this, that 

they 
May guide thy arms, arms that are 

strong for toil. 
And that thy love may lean her sweet 

cheek here. 
Oh, may Christ speak to thee, and 

mayest thou hear! 

With the bread the mother makes the sign of 
the cross over her son who falls on his 
knees before her. 

Aligi: 

I laid me down and slept, and dreamed 
of Christ; 



[ i9o] 

Christ spoke to me and said: "Be not 

afraid." 
And San Giovanni spoke: "Be sure," 

he said, 
"Without the taper's light thou wilt not 

He;" 
He said: "An evil death thou wilt not 

die." 

And you, O mother! have chosen for 

me my fate, 
O! mother you have chosen a bride for 

me, 
A bride for your son. In your house to be. 
My mother, you have brought to me a 

bride. 
That with me on the pillow she may 

sleep; 
That she and I may eat from the one 

dish. 
I pasture flocks upon the mountain side; 
O mother! I must go back to my 

sheep ! 

The mother touches his brow with her hand 
as if to drive away an evil shadow. 



[191] 

Candia: 

Rise up, rise up, my son, strange words 

are these! 
Thy words change colour even while thou 

dost speak, 
As when the wind blows through the 

olive-trees. 

The son rises, dazed. 

Aligi: 

Where is my father that I see him not? 

Candia: 

Down in the wheat-field with the har- 
vesters. 

Binding the sheaves there in the grace 
of God. 

Aligi: 

I reaped the grain once in his body's 

shade. 
I was so little that I had not made 
My first communion. My head reached 

his thigh. 
The first time that I struck, I cut a 

vein. 



[ 192] 

Here, where the scar is. With fresh 
leaves they stayed 

The flowing of the blood. My father 
said: 

"Aligi, son," he said, "Aligi, son, 

Give up the sickle, and take to thee the 
crook, 

And be a shepherd on the mountain- 
side." 

And all that he commanded has been 
done. 

Candia: 

My son, my son, what is it pains thee 

thus.? 
Perhaps it is the burden of thy dream.? 
Thy words are like the twilight when it 

falls. 
And one sits on the stone by the wayside, 
And follows not the road, because he 

knows 
He may not come where his heart doth 

abide, 
When twilight falls while yet one cannot 

hear 
The Ave Maria sounding far or near. 



[ 193 ] 

Aligi: 

Back to the mountain I must be return- 
ing. 

Mother, where have you put my shep- 
herd's crook 

Which knows by night and day the 
grassy paths? 

I want it, when our kinsfolk come to-day, 

That they may see how I have carved 
it all. 

The mother brings the crook from a corner 
near the fireplace. 

Candia: 

Here it is, son; thy sisters, look and see, 
For San Giovanni they have decked it 

out 
With red clove-pinks and spicy garden 

herbs. 

Aligi, showing the carving: 

I have them in the red wood of my crook, 
Always, and in my hand, my sisters three. 
Who go with me along the grassy paths. 
Here are three little maidens, mother, 
look, 



[ 194] 

And here three angels flying over them, 
And here three trailing stars, and here 

three doves. 
And for each one I have made a little 

flower. 
And this is the sun, and this the crescent 

moon; 
This is the stole, and this the sacrament; 
And this, see, this is San Biagio's tower. 
This is the river, here, and this my house, 
But who is this that stands within the 

door? 

Candia: 
Aligi, Aligi, why wilt thou make me 
weep ? 

Jligi: 

And there, low down, near to the iron 

foot. 
There is the shepherd, and there are the 

sheep; 
Shepherd and sheep and mountain all are 

there. 
I must go to the mountain and the sheep. 
Even though you weep, my mother, even 

though I weep. 



[195] 

He leans both hands on the crook and hows 
his head absorbed in thought. 

Candia: 

And Hope, Aligi, where hast thou put 
her? 

Jligi: 

Her face I never yet could learn to know, 
That I might carve It, mother, verily. 

j4 wild clamor is heard far off. 

O mother, who is this that shrieks so 
loud? 

Candia: 

It is the tumult of the harvesters; 
God save them from the madness of the 

sun; 
And may the Baptist keep their hands 

from blood! 

jiligi: 

Mother, whoever put that red scarf 

there. 
Stretched out across the doorway of our 

house. 
And leaned the distaff and the pitchfork 

there? 



[196] 

If evil things are not to enter there, 
Ah, pile the plough and cart and oxen 

there. 
Against the sill, and heap up stones and 

sods, 
And all the lime of all the furnaces. 
And the rock with Samson's footprint 

pile above, 
And heap Maiella there with all its 

snows. 



Candia: 

My son, what is it stirring in thy heart? 
Christ said to thee that thou shouldst 

have no fear. 
Art thou awake.? Look at the cross of 

wax, 
For it was blessed on last Ascension Day; 
And holy water was sprinkled on the 

hinge. 
There is no evil thing can enter there. 
It was thy sisters stretched the scarf 

across. 
It is the prize that thou thyself didst 

win. 



[ 197 ] 

Before thou hadst turned shepherd, O 

my son, 
Didst win it, victor in the ploughing 

match. 
Dost thou remember? They have placed 

it there 
That it may stop our kinsfolk as they 

pass. 
That, passing, each may give a pleasant 

gift. 
Why dost thou ask? Thou knowest 

the custom well. 

O mother, I have slept seven hundred 

years. 
Seven hundred years; and I am come 

from far. 
My cradle, mother, I remember not. 

Candia: 

What is the matter, son? Are thy 

words mad? 
Has thy bride poured for thee, perchance, 

black wine. 
And thou, from fasting, art frenzied by 

the wine. 



[198] 

So that thy feeling overbears thy 

thought? 
O Mary, Virgin, give, oh, give me peace! 

Voice of Ornella, singing: 
Only the green I would be wearing. 
To San Giovanni's feast a-faring; 
Green, for by a sweet green way 
One came to win me on a day, — 
Well-a-way, ah, well-a-way! 

Scene 3 

The bride enters, accompanied hy the 
sisters of Aligi and is welcomed by his 
mother with various household ceremonies. 
An evil omen follows: Vienda and Aligi are 
solemnly seated before the door of the bridal 
chamber, when Vienda, rising suddenly, lets 
the split loaf of bread, which Candia has 
given her, fall to the floor. All are filled with 
dismay. Ornella calls upon San Sisto to 
drive all evil from their home. 

^ Miss Jewett was at work upon this translation during 
the last summer of her life, but did not complete it. The 
editors have briefly indicated the plot of the longer por- 
tions omitted: Act I, Scenes 3, 4, and 5, and Act III. 



[i99] 

Scene 4 

The kinswomen come in, bearing on their 
heads baskets of grain trimmed with ribbons. 
Upon the grain in each basket lies a loaf of 
bread and in each loaf a flower is thrust. 
The women enter one by one with rural cere- 
monies, calling down blessings upon the 
bride at whose feet they place the baskets. 
They scatter a little grain upon the heads of 
bride and bridegroom. A bell is ringing. 
Without are heard the voices of reapers; 
they seem to increase in number and to draw 
nearer. Suddenly a woman's cry is heard: 
^'' Help for Chrisfs sake. People of God, 
people of God, save me! " 

Scene 5 

The woman rushes in, breathless from 
haste and fright. She is covered with dust 
and thorns, like a hunted animal. She 
cowers in the chimney corner, calling upon 
the good people to save her; to shut and bolt 
the door: the reapers, crazed by sun and by 
wine, are after her like mad dogs. The 



[ 200 ] 

Other zvomen crowd together on the opposite 
side of the room. Suddenly Ornella runs 
and shtits and holts the door. She approaches 
the frightened stranger, speaking gently, and 
brings her a howl of wine and water. The 
uproar without grows louder and nearer; 
the reapers call brutally and beat upon the 
door. One of them looks through the window 
bars and spies the stra^iger; at this the mob 
grows zvilder. They call out to Candia that 
the girl she is hiding is Mila di Codra, the 
daughter of the magician, Jorio. They use 
threats and evil words at which the sisters 
stop their ears. The kinsfolk clamor, urging 
Aligi to drive the stranger forth; his mother 
commands him to do so. He approaches 
Mila and draws aside the veil which has 
covered her head. He stares at her as if 
bewitched, forgetting to drop the end of the 
veil. Then he starts to drive her out. Mila 
begs for protection and warns him that the 
hearth is sacred, where she has taken refuge. 
Aligi, blind with rage and fear at the viola- 
tion of his hearth, raises his crook to strike 
her. His sisters try to protect her, weeping. 
Suddenly Aligi falls on his knees, crying 



[201 ] 

out that he sees the mute angel weeping like 
his sisters. It is he who has sinned against 
the hearth. He begs his sisters to pray for 
him and to care for Mila, and he takes 
the flowers of San Giovanni from his crook 
and lays them at her feet. He tries to hum 
the offending hand with a coal from the fire. 
The threats of the reapers are renewed with 
more and more violence. The women kneel 
and begin the Litany. Aligi places the wax 
crucifix upon the threshold and opens the 
door: "Good Christians, this cross was 
blessed upon Ascension Day. I have placed 
it on the threshold that you may guard your- 
selves from sinning against the poor girl 
who has taken refuge on this hearth. Reapers 
of Norca, may Heaven help you.'''' The 
reapers uncover, reach out their hands to 
touch the cross, put their hands to their lips 
and silently withdraw. The Litany con- 
tinues. Lazaro di Roio comes in, wounded, 
his head bound up. Mila veils herself 
again and creeps to the door, waiting a chance 
to escape. 



[ 202 ] 



ACT II 

A mountain cavern partly furnished with 
hoards, brushzvood, and straw, with a wide 
opening toward a stony path. Through the 
cave'' s great mouth are seen green pastures, 
snowy peaks, wandering clouds. There are 
couches of sheepskins, tables of rough wood, 
wallets and wine skins, full and empty. 
There is a turner'' s lathe for turning and carv- 
ing, with hatchet, plane, knife, file and other 
instruments, and near by finished objects: 
distaffs, spindles, ladles, spoons, mortars 
and pestles, shepherds^ pipes, whistles, candle- 
sticks. There is a block of walnut wood that 
at bottom still appears formless, incased in its 
hark, hut above shows the figure of an angel 
roughly hewn out with the chisel, down to the 
waist, and with the wings almost finished. 
An olive-oil lamp is burning before the image 
of Our Lady in a hollow of the rock as in 
a niche. A shepherd's pipe hangs near. 
Sheep bells are heard in the silence of the 
mountain. It is late afternoon of a day 
in early autumn. 



[ 203 ] 

Scene i 

Malde, the treasure-seeker^ and Anna 
Onna, the old herb-woman, stretched out in 
their rags, are asleep on the sheepskins. 
Cosma, the saint, dressed in a coat of skin^ 
sleeps also, hut seated, with his chin resting 
on his clasped knees. Aligi is sitting on a 
bench, engaged in carving with his tools the 
block of walnut wood. Mila di Codra sits 
opposite him, looking at him. 

Mila: 

Oh, he was mute, the Saint 

Carved of the walnut tree; 
Deaf was the holy wood, 

Sant' Onofrlo naught said he. 

But then the maiden spoke 

{Miserere Domine). 
But then the beauty spoke: 

"Here is my heart," said she. 

" If he will have blood for his cure, 
Take my heart's blood of me; 

But cover the secret sure, 
Let him never, never see." 



[ 204] 

And, sudden, a shoot is seen 

Between the wooden lips. 
Then Sant' Onofrio grows green 

At all his finger tips. 

She stoops to pick up shavings and splinters. 

Aligi: 

Mila, this, too, is wood of the walnut 

tree. 
Will it grow green, Mila, grow green 

again .f* 

Mila, bending down to the ground: 
"If he will have blood for his cure. 
Take my heart's blood of me" -^ 

j^ligi: 

Will it grow green, Mila, grow green 
again? 

Mila: 

"But cover the secret sure, 
Let him never, never seel" 

Jligi: 

O Mila, let the miracle absolve us! 
Let the mute angel here protect us still, 



[205 ] 

For, carving him, I do not use my 

tools, 
I work but with my soul held in my 

hand. 
What art thou seeking there? What 

hast thou lost? 

Mila: 

I gather up the splinters and will burn 

them. 
And with each one a little grain of 

incense. 
Aligi, hasten, hasten, for time passes, 
Half-full already is the September moon. 
The shepherds already they begin to 

leave. 
Those who go Puglia way, and those for 

Rome. 
And whither will my love, my shepherd, 

go? 
Where he may take his way let there be 

meadows 
And springs of water, and never any 

wind, 
And let him think of me when it grows 

night! 



[206] 

Aligi: 

Mila, Aligi toward Rome will travel. 
He will go where they go by all the roads, 
Leading his flock toward Rome, toward 

Rome the Great, 
That he may get him pardon from the 

Vicar, 
Forgiveness from the Vicar of Christ 

Our Lord, 
Because he is the Shepherd of the 

shepherds. 
Not to Apulia this year will he journey. 
But to Our Lady of the Schiavonia 
Send by the hand of Alai of Averna 
These candlesticks carved out of cypress 

wood. 
And with them he will send two little 

candles, 
That she may not forget him, though a 

sinner, 
Our Lady who keeps watch upon the 

shore. 
And the Angel, Mila, when it shall be 

finished. 
This Angel he will load upon a mule, 
And with him, step by step, will carry it. 



[207] 

Mila: 

O hasten, hasten, Aligi, for time passes, 

From the girdle down the Angel still is 
hidden 

In the block, and still its two feet are 
fast bound 

In the wood, and still its hands are with- 
out fingers. 

And the eyes are on the same line with 
the forehead. 

Thou didst linger long making the 
Angel's wings 

Feather by feather, but it cannot fly. 

Aligi: 

Gostanzo the painter, he will aid me, 

Mila. 
Gostanzo of Bisegna, he who paints 
The histories that make our carts so gay. 
Already he and I have planned together 
How he will give me of his finest colors; 
And the brothers, it may be, at the Badia, 
For a little lamb will give a bit of gold 

leaf 
To put upon the wings and round the 

throat. 



[ 208 ] 

Mila: 

O hasten, hasten, Allgl, for time passes, 
Already the night is longer than the day, 
And from the plain the shadow rises 

early, 
Early and swiftly when one is not think- 
ing, 
So that the eye directs the hand no 

longer, 
And the blind chisel cannot aid thy skill. 

Cosma stirs in his sleep and moans. Far 
off is heard the holy chant of the 
pilgrimage. 

Cosma is dreaming, and who knows what 
he dreams? 

Listen, the song of the company of pil- 
grims. 

Who are crossing over the mountain to 
go down. 

Perhaps, to Santa Maria della Potenza, 

Aligi, toward thy land, thy land they go; 

Toward thine own house there where 
thy mother dwells; 

Perhaps they will pass by at little dis- 
tance, 



[ 209 ] 

And the mother will hear them singing, 

and Ornella, 
Perhaps, and they will say: "Listen, 

these pilgrims 
Are coming down from the cabins of the 

shepherds. 
And never a message has been sent to 

us!" 

^ligi is bending down shaping roughly with 
the hatchet the lower part of the block. 
He gives one blow and, leaving the iron 
in the wood, rises anxiously. 

Aligi: 

Why wilt thou touch the heart where 

most it hurts? 
I will run down and meet them in the 

roadway, 
Mila, and beg the crucifer to carry 
A message — but, oh, what, what shall 

I say? 

Mila: 

Say to him : " good crucifer, I pray thee, 
If thou pass through the valley of San 
Biagio, 



[2I0] 

Through the countryside that they call 

Acquanova, 
Ask for a house, the house there of a 

woman 
Who Is called Candia della Leonessa. 
Halt there, for thou wilt surely have from 

her 
A bit of food and drink, and It may be 
Thou wilt have more. Halt there, and 

say: 'Thy son 
Allgl salutes thee, and salutes his sisters 
With thee, salutes also his bride, VIenda, 
And sends his promise that he will 

descend, 
That he may have thy blessing once 

again 
In peace, before he needs must go away; 
And he assures thee that he now Is free 
From evil and from peril; he is free, 
Forever free, from the false enemy; 
And never again will he be cause of 

anger. 
And never again be cause of grief and 

tears 
To his mother, to his bride, nor to his 

sisters.' " 



[211] 

Jligi: 

O Mlla, Mila, what is the wind that 
beats 

Upon thy soul and sways thee? A sud- 
den wind, 

A wind of fear. And thy voice is grown 
faint 

Upon thy lips, and all the blood has left 

Thy face. Mila, why wouldst thou have 
me send 

A lying message to my mother's house.'' 

Mtla: 

In truth, in truth, in very truth I speak, 
O brother, brother mine, dear to thy 

sister. 
As true as that I never sinned with thee. 
But I was as a taper burning ever 
Before thy faithj and shining with the 

light 
Of love immaculate, adoring thee. 
In truth, in truth, in very truth I speak. 
And say: Go, go, run down into the 

road. 
And seek the crucifer, that he may bear 
The message of thy peace to Acquanova. 



[212 ] 

The parting hour has come, the hour has 

come 
For Jorio's daughter, and so let it be. 

Aligi: 

Surely of the wild honey thou hast eaten, 
And all thy mind is vexed. Where wilt 
thou go.^ 

Mila: 

I will go where they go by all the roads. 

Aligi: 

Ah, come with me then, Mila, come with 

me! 
The way is long, is long, but thee also 
I will mount on my mule, and we will go. 
We two, with hope, and travel toward 

great Rome. 

Mila: 

No, no, I must needs go another way. 
Swiftly, on myown feet, and without hope. 

Aligi turns to the old woman, who sleeps. 

Aligi: 

Ho, Anna Onna, there! Wake up! Get 
up! 



[ 213 ] 

And go and seek for me black hellebore, 
That it may bring this woman's wits 
again. 

Mila: 

Do not be angry, Aligi, for if thou art, 
Even thou, angry with me, how shall I 

live 
Until the night? From underneath thy 

heel, 
Aligi, I shall not gather up my heart. 

Aligi: 

To my own house I never will return, 
Daughter of Jorio, except with thee, 
Mila di Codra, mine by sacrament. 

Mila: 

Aligi, Aligi, shall I again pass over 

That threshold where the cross of wax 
was laid? 

There where a man appeared with bleed- 
ing head; 

And the man's son spoke there and said 
to him: 

"If that blood is unjust, thou mayst not 
pass." 



[214] 

And it was noon, the vigil of the day 
Of San Giovanni. It was harvest time. 
The sickle now hangs idle on the wall, 
The grain lies resting in the granary, 
But the pain sown that day is growing 
still. 

Cosma stirs ^ groaning in his sleep. 

Aligi: 

But dost thou know who will lead thee 
by the hand.^ 

Cosma, shrieking: 

No, do not loose him! do not let him go! 

Scene 2 

The saint opens his arms, lifting his face 
from his hands. 

Mila: 

What art thou dreaming, Cosma.? Cosma, 
speak! 

Cosma wakens, and rises. 

Aligi: 

What hast thou seen, O Cosma.? Cosma, 
speak! 



[215] 

Cosma: 

Horrible things came to me in my sleep. 
I saw — I dare not tell what I have seen. 
Oh, every dream that comes from God 

must be 
Made pure with fire, before it can be 

told. 
I saw, I saw, and, surely, I will tell — 
But let me not profanely use the name 
Of God, my God, interpreting the dream, 
Now, while the darkness still is over me. 

j4ligi: 

Cosma, thou art a saint, for many years 

Thou hast bathed thyself with water 
from the snow, 

With water flowing from the mountain- 

• side 

Thou hast quenched thy thirst under 
the open sky. 

To-day thou hast been sleeping in my 
cave, 

Upon my sheepfells that have been made 
clean 

With sulphur that can keep the night- 
mare off. 



[2l6] 

Thou hast seen visions, Cosma, in thy 

sleep, 
The eye of the Lord God is upon thee. 
Then with thy understanding succor me. 
Now I will speak to thee; do thou reply. 

Cosma: 

O boy, true wisdom I have never learned, 
And I have no more understanding mind 
Than has the pebble in the shepherd path. 

Aligi: 

Cosma, man of God, listen to me. 

1 pray thee by the Angel hidden there 
In the block, that has no ears and yet 

does hear. 

Cosma: 

Speak out then, shepherd, speak straight 

words. 
And do not put thy faith In me, 
But In the holy truth have faith. 

Malde and Anna Onna rise up and rest on 
their elbows to listen. 

Aligi: 

O Cosma, Cosma, this is holy truth: 



[ 217 ] 

From the plain of Puglla I came back to 

the mountain, 
Leading my flock, the day of Corpus 

Christi. 
When I had found a spot to make my 

sheepfold, 
Down to my house I went to spend three 

days. 
And in my house, Cosma, I found my 

mother 
Who said to me: "My dear son, I will 

give thee 
A bride." And I made answer: "Mother, 

always 
I have kept thy commandments," and 

she said, 
" 'T is well, my son, this is thy bride." 

They made 
The wedding feast, and all the kinsfolk 

came 
With me, to bring the new bride to our 

house. 
And I was like a man on the farther 

shore 
Of a stream, who sees the things that lie 

beyond 



[2l8] 

The water, while through the midst he 

sees 
The water flow, that flows eternally. 
Cosma, 'twas Sunday, and I had not 

drunk 
Of wine made heavy with the poppy 

seeds. 
Cosma, why did a great sleep fall on me, 
And overpower my forgetful heart? 
Cosma, I think I slept seven hundred 

years. 
On Monday It was late when we arose. 
My mother broke the loaf of bread 

above 
The maiden's head, who only wept and 

wept. 
And I had never touched her. Then our 

kin 
Came bringing baskets filled with wheat 

for us. 
But I was silent, always, and most sad, 
As if I stood within the shadow of death. 
And, see, upon a sudden enter there 
This woman trembling all from head to 

foot. 
The reapers they were persecuting her, 



[219] 

The dogs! And she was praying us for 

help. 
And none of us, Cosma, not one would 

stir, 
Only my little sister, the smallest one. 
Ran, and was brave enough to close the 

door. 
And then the door is battered by those 

dogs, 
Cosma, with every sort of vile abuse. 
And they cry out against this woman 

here. 
With lying mouths and hateful words. 
And the kinsfolk wish to throw her to 

the pack. 
And she, all sorrowful, close by the 

hearth, 
Begs mercy that they may not slaughter 

her. 
Then I, myself, I seize and drag her 

there, 
In hate and fear; and 't is as if I dragged 
My own heart when I was a little child. 
And she cries out, and I, — O, I lift up 
My staff against her. And my sisters 

weep. 



[ 220 ] 

And then, behind her, Cosma, with these 

eyes, 
I see, I see the Angel stand, that weeps. 

Saint, I see it! The Angel looks 

on me. 
It weeps, and does not speak. And then 
I kneel. 

1 beg for pardon. And to punish this 
My hand, I reach and take from off the 

hearth 
A burning coal. "No, do not burn thy- 
self!" 
The woman cries. And then she speaks 

to me. 
O Cosma, O thou saint, with water of 

snow 
Thou dost baptize thyself dawn after 

dawn; 
And thou, old woman, canst tell all the 

herbs 
That heal all evils known to Christian 

flesh. 
The virtues thou dost know of every root; 
And thou, Malde, with that forked wand 

of thine 
Discernest where the buried treasures lie 



[221 ] 

At the feet of the dead, who have been 
long time dead — 

For a hundred years, for a thousand 
years, I know. 

And deep they are buried in the moun- 
tain, deep — 

And now I will ask of you, of you who 
hear 

The things that come from far, and far 
away. 

What voice was It, and from what dis- 
tances, 

That came and spoke so that Aligi heard? 

Answer me, all of you. She said to me: 

"How wilt thou tend thy flock if thou 
thyself. 

Shepherd Aligi, hurtest thine own hand?" 

And with that word she seemed to gather 
up 

The very soul of me from out my bones, 

As thou, old woman, gatherest an herb! 

Mila weeps silently. 

Anna Onna: 

There is a red herb that they call 
glaspi, 



[ 222 ] 

And another, white, and it is called 
egusa, 

And the one grows and the other, far 
apart. 

But the roots beneath the ground they 
find each other. 

Under the blind earth, and they inter- 
twine 

So closely that not even Santa Lucia 

Discerns them. And their leaves are 
different, 

But they bear the same flower, each 
seven years. 

And this also is written in the books. 

And Cosma knows the power of the Lord. 

Aligi: 

O listen, Cosma, that forgetful sleep, 
From whence, from whom was it sent 

to my bed? 
A maiden's innocent hand it was that 

closed 
The door of safety; and to me appeared 
The Angel of good counsel; and one 

word 
Upon the lip made an eternal bond. 



[223 ] 

Which woman was my wife there by the 

sign 
Of the good grain, of the bread and of 

the flower? 

Cosma: 

Shepherd Aligi, listen, the just scales 
And the just weight and balance are of 

God. 
And do thou still take heed to understand 
The mind of Him in whom thy safety 

lies; 
Take thou from Him a pledge for the 

unknown one. 
But she thou didst not touch, where is 

she now.? 

Aligi: 

I left for the sheep-fold at vesper-time, 
That vigil of San Giovanni. At the 

dawn 
I found myself above at Capracinta, 
And stood, and waited for the rising 

sun. 
And in the sun's red ring I saw the face 
Of the Beheaded. Then I sought my 

fold, 



[ 224] 

Took up again my pasturing and my 

pain. 
And it seemed always that my sleep 

endured, 
And that my flock was feeding on my 

life. 
And, oh, my heart, how heavily it 

weighed ! 
O Cosma, I saw her, saw her shadow 

first, 
And then herself upon the threshold 

stone. 
It was the day of Santo Teobaldo. 
This woman was sitting there upon the 

stone. 
At the threshold and she could not rise, 

because 
Her feet were wounded. Then she said: 

"Aligi, 
Thou knowest me?" And I answered: 

"Thou art Mila." 
And then we spoke no more, because no 

more 
Were we two souls. We did not sin that 

day. 
Nor ever after. I tell thee in very truth. 



[225 ] 

Cosma: 

Shepherd Aligi, truly thou hast Hghted 
A holy lamp in the darkness of thy night, 
But thou hast set it in place of the old 

mark, 
The ancient boundary that thy fathers 

raised. 
Thou hast removed that consecrated 

stone. 
And what shall come to thee if thy lamp 

fail.? 
The counsel of man's heart is like deep 

water; 
And yet the honest man may understand. 

Aligi: 

I pray to God that he will place on us 
The seal of that eternal sacrament. 
Dost thou see what I do? With soul in 

hand 
I carve this block of wood into the form 
Of the Angel who appeared. It was 

begun 
On last Assumption Day, and I intend 
At the Rosario to finish it. 
Then, listen, I will lead my flock to Rome, 



[226] 

And carry this angel with me on a mule, 

And I will go myself to the Holy Father, 

In the name of San Pietro Celestino 

Who did long penance on the moun- 
tain-side. 

I am going to the Shepherd of the shep- 
herds 

And with this offering ask that he may 
grant 

That the bride whom I did never touch 
may go 

Back to her mother, loosed from every 
bond. 

And that I may take unto myself this 
woman, 

The stranger who can weep and make 
no sound. 

And now I ask of thy great knowledge, 
tell, 

O Cosma, will that grace be granted me.f* 

Cosma: 

Now all the pathways of a man seem 

straight 
To the man; but it is God who weigheth 

hearts. 



[227] 

High walls, high walls are built around 

the City, 
It has great gates of iron, and all about 
Great tombs are builded where grass 

grows and grows. 
Thy little lamb will browse not on that 

grass, 
Shepherd Aligi. Inquire of thy mother. 

j4 voice outside, shrieking: 

O Cosma, Cosma, art thou there? Come 
forth! 

******* 



Scene 3 

******* 

j^ligi: 

I follow, for I did not tell thee all. — 

Mila: 

Aligi, true thou didst not tell the whole! 
Go to the road and seek the crucifer 
And pray that he will take thy message 
home. 



[ 228 ] 

The saint goes away across the pastures. 
Now and then is heard the singing of 
the pilgrims. 

Aligl, Aligi, all we did not tell! 

And In my mouth 't were better I should 

have 
A good handful of dust, yes, or a stone 
To shut It fast. But listen just to this, 
Aligi, I have never done thee harm, 
And harm I will not do thee. Now my 

feet 
Are healed again, and well I know the 

road. 
The parting hour is come for Jorio's 

daughter. 
The parting hour is come. So let it be. 

Aligi: 

I know not, thou knowest not the hour 

that comes. 
Fill up our lamp with oil. There still is 

oil 
In the skin. And wait while I go to the 

pilgrims, 
For now I know right well what I will 

say. 



[ 229 ] 

He turns to go. The zvomauj overcome by 
dismay J calls him hack. 

Mila: 

My brother, Aligl, give thy hand to me. 

Aligi: 

Mila, the road is there, not far away. 

Mila: 

Give me thy hand that I may kiss it, 

dear. 
It is the one spring granted to my 
thirst. 

Aligi, drawing near: 

Mila, this is the hand I would have 

burned. 
This is the wicked hand that did thee 

wrong. 

Mila: 

I have forgotten. I am but that creature 
Whom thou didst find seated upon the 

stone — 
And who knows by what pathways 

she had come! 



[ 230 ] 

jiligi: 

Upon thy face the tear Is not yet dried, 
In thy lashes, trembling, still a tear 

doth linger 
While thou dost speak, and yet it does 

not fall. 

Mila: 

Aligi, listen! there has fallen a great 

silence. 
They are not singing now. With the 

grass and snow 
We are alone, brother, we are alone. 

jiligi: 

Mila, thou art now as on that first even- 
ing 

There, sitting on the stone, when thou 
wouldest smile 

With thine eyes and all the time thy 
feet were bleeding. 

Mila: 

And thou, art thou not he who knelt 

that day. 
Who laid the flowers of San Giovan 

Battista 



[231 ] 

Upon the ground ? And one he gathers up 
And carries it hid in his shepherd's scrip. 

Aligi: 

Mila, there is a cadence In thy voice 
That comforts me, and yet that makes 

me sad, 
As in October when one leads one's 

flocks. 
And walks and walks along beside the 

sea. 

Mila: 

To walk with thee on the mountains and 

the shore, 
I would to God that this might be my 

fate. 

j4ligi: 

O my beloved! gird thee for the journey. 
Long is the way, but love, but love is 
strong. 

Mila: 

Would I might walk with thee on burn- 
ing fire, 
Aligi, and the journey never end! 



[232 ] 

Upon the mountains thou shalt gather 

gentians, 
And little starfish down upon the sands. 

Mila: 

Aligi, I would crawl and plant my knees 
In thy footsteps, if I might follow thee. 

Aligi: 

Think of the hours of rest when night 

shall fall! 
For pillow thou shalt have the mint and 

thyme. 

Mila: 

I do not think, no. And yet let me stay 
This one night more and live here where 

thou breathest. 
And listen to thy sleep yet one night 

more, 
And let me watch thee even as thy dogs 

watch. 

j4ligi: 

Thou knowest, thou knowest, Mila, the 
thing that comes! 



[233] 

With thee I share water, and bread, and 

salt. 
And thus with thee I will share bed and 

board 
Even to death. Mlla, give me thy hands ! 

Mila: 

Ah, how one trembles, trembles, thou 

art cold. 
Aligi, thou art white — Where is it 

gone — 
The blood that leaves thy face to the 

last drop.f* 

Aligi: 

Oh, Mila, Mila, I hear sound like 

thunder — 
And all the mountain falls and crashes 

down. 
Where art thou, Mila.? Everything 

grows dark! 

He stretches out his hand to her as one who 
staggers. They kiss, then they fall upon 
their knees facing each other. 

Mila: < 

Have pity upon us, O Holy Virgin! 



[234] 

Aligi: 

Have pity upon us, O Jesus Christ! 

There is a great silence. 

A harsh voice is heard outside. 

Voice: 

Shepherd, they seek you at the fold, 
A black sheep there has fallen lame. 

Aligi rises, wavering, and goes in the direc- 
tion of the voice. 

The keeper seeks for you, and bids you 

run, 
And says there is a woman with a basket, 
They don't know who she is, asking for 

you. 

Aligi turns his head to look hack at the 
woman who is still kneeling; and his 
look embraces everything in the place. 

Aligi, in a low voice: 

Into the lamp there, Mila, pour more oil, 
Lest it go out. For see, it scarcely burns. 
Take the oil from the skin, there still is 
more. 



[235 ] 

And wait for me, I will be back by night. 
And do not be afraid. God pardon us; 
Because we tremble, Mary pardons us. 
Fill up the lamp, and pray to her for 
grace. 

He goes off across the pasture. 

Mila: 

Virgin, holy Virgin, grant this grace, 
That I may stay with face upon the 

ground, 
Grown cold here, that I may be found 

here, dead, 
By those who come, at last, to bury me. 
There was no sin, beneath thy holy eyes, 
It was not sin: 'twas thou didst grant 

it us. 
We sinned not with our lips (thou art 

thyself 
Our witness). With our lips we never 

sinned. 

1 dare to die beneath thy holy eyes, 
Mary. I have no power to go away. 
But live with him, — that, Mila will 

not do. 
I was not wicked, Mother of gentleness; 



[236] 

I was a trampled pool, too much, too 

much, 
Have I been shamed under the eyes of 

Heaven. 
And who shall take from out my memory, 
Mother, that shame of mine, save it be 

thou ? 
Mother, I was reborn when love was 

born, 
And thou didst will it, faithful Virgin, 

thou. 
And all this other blood that fills my 

veins. 
It comes from far away, from far away, 
Comes from the depths of earth, from 

where she sleeps 
Who suckled me; (O let her see me now!) 
From far it comes, comes from my inno- 
cence 
Of far-off childhood; Mary, thou canst 

see. 
Not with our lips (thou art our witness. 

Mother), 
We sinned hot with our lips, — not with 

our lips. 
And if I tremble, 't is because I bring 



[ 237 ] 

The trembling In my bones from out the 

past. 
Here with my fingers now I close my 

eyes. 

With the first and middle fingers of both 
hands she presses down her eyelids; 
and bends her face down to the ground. 

I feel death near me, feel death very near. 
The trembling grows. My heart will 
not be still. 

She rises impetuously. 

Oh, wretched me! what I was told to do 
I have not done. Three times he said 

to me 
"Fill up the lamp," and, see, 'tis going 

out. 

She runs to the oil-skin that hangs from a 
beam, but she zvatches the little tremblijig 
flame and strives to sustain it by her 
murmured prayer. 

Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus 
tecum — 



[238] 

She seizes the skin, pressing it in her hands, 
seeks for the flask into which to pour 
the oil, hut from the shrunken skin she 
can squeeze out only a few drops. 

'TIs empty, empty! Three drops, 

blessed Virgin! 
They shall be holy for my extreme 

unction, 
Two for my hands, the other for my 

mouth. 
And all the three upon my soul! 
But, if I live still when he comes again, 
What shall I say to him? What shall 

I say? 
Before he sees me, he will surely see 
The lamp gone out. Oh, Mother, if even 

love 
Might not avail to keep the lamp alight. 
What help to him shall be this love of 

mine? 

She presses the skin yet again, searches 
about in a hamper, turning the jugs 
upside down, all the time murmuring 
a prayer. 



[ 239 ] 

O make it burn, Madre intemerata! 
Still for a little, still, while we might say 
An Ave Maria! while a prayer might last. 
Salve Regina! Madre di Misericordia! 

In her breathless search she approaches the 
threshold^ she hears a step and perceives 
a shadow. She cries out: 

woman, O good woman. Christian soul. 
Stay, stay, and may God bless thee! 

Woman, stay! 

For it may be that God has sent thee 
here. 

What hast thou In thy basket .f* Hast 
thou oil.? 

Give me a little oil for charity. 

Then enter here and thou may'st have 
thy choice 

Of spoons and mortars, spindles, dis- 
taffs, all! 

1 must have oil to fill Our Lady's lamp. 
Lest it go out. For, if the lamp go out, 
I shall not find the road to Paradise. 
Good Christian, dost thou hear me, 

wilt thou give 
This gift to me for charity, for love? 



[ 24o] 

The woman appears upon the threshold^ her 
face covered with a black mantle; she 
takes the wooden measure from her head 
and without a word sets it on the ground. 
She removes the cloth, seeks within, takes 
a flask full of oil a7id holds it out to 
Mila di Codra. 

Oh, blessed, blessed one! God will 

repay 
This deed of thine in heaven and on 

the earth! 
Thou hast it, hast it! Thou art clothed 

in black, 
Ah, but Our Lady surely will grant to 

thee 
To see again the dear face of thy 

dead. 
Because of this that thou hast done for 

me. 

She takes the flask and turns anxiously to 
run to the dying lamp. 

Oh, I am lost! I am lost! It is gone 
out! 



[241] 

The flask slips from her hafids and is 
shattered on the earth. She stands motion- 
less for some minutes, spell-bound by the 
horror of the omen. The veiled woman bends 
down with a single silent motion to the spilled 
oil, touches it with the fingers of her right 
hand and crosses herself. 

Scene 4 

Mila looks at the woman with quiet sadness, 
and her desperate resignation makes 
her voice dull and slow. 

Mila: 

Pardon me, wanderer of Christ. 

Thy charity avails me not. 

The oil is spilled, the flask is shattered. 

An evil fate is fallen on me. 

Tell me what thou wilt have. These 

things 
The shepherd carved with his own hand. 
Distaff and spindle, all are new. 
Mortar and pestle would'st thou like.'' 
Tell me, for nothing can I tell. 
Now am I in the depths of hell. 



[242 ] 

The Veiled One, with trembling voice: 

Daughter of Jorlo, I came for thee, 
It was for thee I brought these gifts, 
That I might ask one grace of thee. 

Mila: 

Ah, voice of heaven, heard In my soul! 
Heard always in my heart of hearts! 

The Veiled One: 
For thee I came from Acquanova. 

Mila: 

Ornella! Ornella, it Is thou! 

Ornella uncovers her face. 

Ornella: 

I am the sister of Aligi, 

I am the daughter of Lazaro. 

Mila: 

In humbleness I kiss the feet 

That brought thee to me so I might 

In this hour see thy face again, 

The hour of mortal agony. 

'Twas thou who showed me pity, first, 

Ornella, and, now, thou art the last. 



[ 243 ] 

Ornella: 

If I was first to pity thee, 

For that I have done great penance since, 

Mila di Codra. I speak truth, 

My penance is not ended yet. 

Mila: 

Thy sweet voice trembles while thou 

speak'st. 
The knife that trembles in the wound 
Makes far more pain, — so much more 

pain! 
Ah, little girl, thou dost not know. 

Ornella: 

Oh, did'st thou know the grief I have! 
Know all the ill thou hast returned 
For the little good I did to thee! 
The house I left is desolate, 
There is only dying there and tears. 

Mila: 

Why art thou wearing only black? 
Oh, who is dead? Thou dost not speak, 
Perhaps, perhaps, — it is the bride? 

Ornella: 

Ah, thou would'st gladly have her dead! 



[ 244 ] 

Mila: 

God sees my heart. No, I have feared, 
I have had terrors here within. 
But tell me, who then.^ Answer me, 
For God's sake, and for sake of thine 
own soul! 

Ornella: 

No one of us has died as yet, 
But all of us w^ear clothes of black 
For that dear one who went away 
And brought down ruin on his head. 
But, ah! if thou could'st look on her. 
If thou could'st see my mother now. 
How would'st thou tremble! Upon us 
Has come black summer, there has come 
A bitter, poisoned autumn; sorrier 
The saddest leap-year could not be. 
Oh, when I shut the door, to save 
Thy life, I brought black ruin down 
On my own head. Thou did'st not seem 
Unpitying then, thou who did'st pray 
To us for pity! 

And thou did'st ask of me my name. 
That thou might'st speak of it in praise! 
And on my name they call down shame, 



[245 ] 

Morning and evening In my house; 
And I am cursed and driven out. 
And stay apart, for every one 
Shrieks: "Look at her! she Is the one 
Who slipped the bolt In the great door, 
So that vile creature might remain 
Huddled there in the chimney, safe." 
And I can bear no more, and say 
" 'T were better to draw out your 

knives 
And tear me Into bits." And this, 
Mila di Codra, Is thy gratitude. 

Mila: 

'T is right, oh. It is right that thou 
Should'st strike me, it Is right that thou 
Should'st pour this bitterness on me, 
Follow my sin with punishment 
Like this Into the world below. 
Perhaps for me the stone and hedge, 
The straw and the Insensate wool 
Will speak; and the mute Angel, living 
To thy brother's hand there in the 

block. 
And the Virgin, with her light gone out. 
Will speak; and I, I will not speak. 



[ 246 ] 

Ornella: 

O Mila, now It seems to me as If 

Thy soul were but a garment thou dost 

wear, 
And I could touch It, reaching out to 

thee 
My hand of faith. 
How is It thou dost cast 
Such evil on God's people? 

Did'st thou see 
Our poor VIenda thou would'st fall a- 

trembllng. 
Her parched skin scarcely covers her 

dry bones, 
And her poor gums look whiter In her 

mouth 
Than her white teeth. And when the 

first rain fell 
On Saturday, our mother said to us, 
Weeping: "See, daughters, see, now she 

will go; 
When the cold comes she will droop 

down and die." 
Ah, but my father does not weep! His 

bitterness 
He chews upon, and does not even move. 



[247 ] 

That dreadful wound of his is grown 
infected, 

And erysipelas laid hold on him. 

(May San Cesidio and San Rocco help 
us!) 

And with the inflammation in his mouth, 

He shrieks and cries aloud by day and 
night. 

His head is as if burned by a black fire. 

And all the time he speaks such blas- 
phemies 

Enough to set the house a-quivering. 

And we are terrified. How thy teeth 
chatter! 

Hast thou the fever .^ What has come 
upon thee.^* 

Mila: 

So, always, at the sinking of the sun 
The chill takes hold upon me, because I 
Have not been used to night among the 

mountains. 
This is the hour when fires are lighted 

up. 
But speak on, speak to me now without 

pity. 



[248] 

Ornella: 

From some hint, yesterday, I knew 
That he was brooding in his thought 
To mount here to the fold. Last 

evening 
I did not see that he came home. 
And all my blood stopped in my veins. 
And then I made this hamper ready, 
And my three sisters aided me. 
For we are three born of one mother. 
And all the three are marked for grief. 
To-night I came from Acquanova, 
I passed the ford across the river 
And to the mountain took my way 
Oh, woman! Christian woman, 
I cannot bear to see thy pain! 
Tell me, what can I do for thee? 
Now thou art trembling even more 
Than when thou wert beside the hearth 
And all the reapers clamored, 

Mila: 

And did'st thou meet him? Art thou sure 
That he has come? and is he at the 

fold ? 
Art thou sure? art thou sure, Ornella? 



[ 249] 

Ornella: 

I have not seen him since, nor know- 
Surely that he came up here to the 

mountain. 
At Gionco he had business, as I know; 
Perhaps he will not come. Don't be afraid, 
But, oh, do listen to me. For the sake 
Of thine own soul's salvation, Mila,Mila, 
Be penitent and take away from us 
This evil spell. O give us back Aligi, 
And may God pity thee, and go with thee! 

Mila: 

I am content, Aligi's sister, 
Always content to do thy bidding. 
'Tis just that thou should'st strike me 

down. 
Me, woman of ill-life, magician's 
Daughter, me, shameless sorceress! 
Who but for charity did beg 
The Christian traveller to give 
A little oil, only a drop of oil 
To keep the holy lamp alight. 
Perhaps behind me yet again 
The Angel weeps. Perhaps the stones 
Will speak for me again. But I, 



[250] 

I will not speak. By the name only 

Of sister I say this to thee: 

(And if I do not speak the truth 

May my dear mother from her tomb 

Arise and seize me by the hair 

And strike me down into black earth 

speaking out 
Against her lying daughter.) Only this 
I say to thee: No sin have I 
Sinned ever with thy brother. Nay, 
I swear to thee that I am innocent. 

Ornella: 
Almighty God! Thou hast wrought a 
miracle! 

Mila: 

This is the love of Mila. Child, 
This is my love. 

I say no more. 
I am content to do thy will, 
And Jorio's daughter knows her way; 
Her spirit ere this was departing. 
Ere thou did'st come to call it, innocent! 
And do not fear more, sister of Aligi, 
Thou hast no need to fear. 

*Jm ^ ^ ^ ^ •At 

^ft 0f* ^» *^ •^ 'J* 



[251] 

Scene 6 

Mila di Codra lets fall the sack torn from the 
old woman, and looks at the man who 
has come, standing tall against the light. 
But recognizing him she gives a cry and 
takes refuge in the shadow at the hack. 
Then Lazaro di Roio enters, in silence, 
carrying a cord twisted about his arm, 
like a herdsman who has set his hull free. 
One can hear on the stone the hurrying 
staff of Anna Onna, who escapes. 

Lazaro di Roio: 

Now, woman, do not be afraid, 
Though Lazaro di Roio comes 
He brings no sickle in his hand. 
He seeks not a revenge on thee. 
More than one drop of blood was drawn 
On the field of Mispa, and thou knowest 
The cause of that fight and its end. 
That thou should'st pay him drop for drop 
He does not wish, spite of the scar 
That always burns and pains his head. 

He laughs a short, rough laugh. 

When he lies on his bed he hears 
The women weeping and lamenting 



[252] 

Not for him, no, but for the shepherd 

Enchanted by a sorceress, 

Upon the mountain far away. 

My woman, surely, thou choosest ill, 

And now I have not much to say, 

But thou 'It go with me, and no need, 

Daughter of Jorio, of more words. 

Down there I 've ass and pack-saddle, 

A cord of hemp I also have. 

And one of rushes. God be praised! 

Mila remains motionless, with her hack to 
the rock, without answering. 

Mila di Codra, dost thou hear? 

Or art thou turning deaf and dumb.'* 

Now I speak to thee peaceably; 

I know well how it was that time 

With the reapers of Norca, there below. 

If now thou thinkest by the same defence 

To stand against me, thou dost trick 

thyself. 
There is no hearthstone here; there are 
No kinsfolk; nor does San Giovanni 
Ring the great bell to keep thee safe. 
I move three steps and have thee fast. 
Besides, I 've two strong fellows here. 



[ 253 ] 

Yet, none the less, I speak in peace, 
'T is better thou should'st yield to this, 
And not compel me to use force. 

Mila: 

What would'st thou with me? Thou 

dost come, 
Now, when death is already here. 
Death moved aside to let thee in, 
But she remains there none the less. 
Look in that sack. In it there are 
Roots that would kill a dozen wolves. 
Though thou, thyself, bind up my jaw, 
I shall be chewing poison sweet 
Just as a heifer chews its cud. 
Take me then, me, when I am cold, 
Put me across the saddle, bound 
Fast with thy cords and take me down 
With the ass, and bring me to the judge 
And say: "Here is the shameless one. 
The Sorceress!" And burn my corpse, 
And let thy women come to look, 
Rejoicing over me. Perhaps 
One will reach out and put her hand 
In the flame, and without burning it, 
To draw my heart forth from the fire. 



[254] 

Lazaro, at the first suggestion, gathers up 
the sack of simples and scrutinizes it. 
He throws it behind him with fear and 
disgust. 

Lazaro: 

Ah, thou dost try to spread a snare for 

me. 
Thou seekest to entrap me, who knows 

how? 
I hear deceit sound in thy voice. 
But I will take thee in my noose. 

He makes a noose with his cord. 

Lazaro will have thee by God's grace, 
Will have thee neither cold nor dead. 
Mila di Codra, he will tread 
The vintage with thee this October. 
His wine vats are already waiting, 
And he will tread the grapes with thee 
And wallow to his neck in must. 

He goes toward the woman, smiling slyly. 
Mila crouches ready to fly. The man 
follows her. She leaps here and there 
but cannot escape. 



[255] 

Mila: 

Don't touch me! Let me go! for shame! 
Thy son is there, behind thee, there! 

Scene 7 

Aligi appears on the threshold. Seeing his 
father he loses every trace of color. 
Lazaro stops and turns on him. Father 
and son look at each other fixedly. 

Lazaro: 

Who is it? Who is it? Aligi? 

Aligi: 

Father, however did you come? 

Lazaro: 

Is thy blood sucked? that thou art grown 
So white? It runs as if strained thin 
As whey when it runs through the bag. 
Shepherd, thou art so terrified. 

Aligi: 

What, Father, Is thy will to do? 

Lazaro: 

My will to do? To ask 
Of me is not permitted thee. 



[256] 

But I will tell thee that I want 
To take the fat sheep in my noose 
And take her with me where I please. 
Then I will settle with the shepherd. 

Father, father, thou shalt not do this. 

Lazaro: 

Dost dare to lift thy face against me? 
Take care I do not make thee blush. 
Go, go back to the hut and stay 
There with thy flock inside the fold 
Until I come and look for thee. 
Now for thy very life obey! 

^ligi: 

Father, may the Lord forbid 

1 should obey thee in this thing. 
Thou hast the power to judge thy son, 
But leave this woman to herself; 
Leave her, leave her to weep alone. 
Do not offend her. It is sin. 

Lazaro: 

Now God has made thee go clean mad! 
Is it a saint of whom thou speakest? 
Dost thou not see (thine eyes were shut), 



[257] 

Can'st thou not see she has beneath 
Her eyelids and about her neck 
All of the seven deadly sins ? 
I tell the truth that if thy sheep 
Should see her they would butt at her. 
Dost thou dare bid me not offend her! 

******* 

j!4ligi: 

If before God it were not sin, 
If before man it were not crime, 
My father, I would say to thee 
That thou hast lied now in thy throat. 

He takes a jew steps slantwise and places 
himself between his father and the 
woman, covering her with his body. 

Lazaro: 

What dost thou say? May thy tongue 

wither! 
Get down upon thy knees and beg 
Pardon, and fall upon the ground, 
And do not dare to stand again 
Before me, but crawl forth. 
Away, and stay there with the dogs. 



[258] 

Jligi: 

My father, let God be our judge; 
But this poor creature to thy rage 
I will not leave, I cannot 
While I live. Let God be judge. 

Lazaro: 

'T is I who am thy judge. Now who 
Am I to thee, and to thy blood? 

Aligi: 

Thou art my father, dear to me. 

Lazaro: 

I am thy father, and can do 
Exactly what I please with thee. 
Thou art mine as much as is the ox 
In my stall; thou art like my spade 
And like my hoe. And if I choose 
To drive the harrow over thee 
And break thy back, it is well done. 
And if I need for my knife here 
A handle and should make me one 
Out of thy thigh, that is well done; 
Because I 'm father and thou son, 
Dost understand? For over thee 
I 've all power, to the end of time. 



[259] 

And just as I was to my father 

Thou art to me though dead and buried! 

Dost understand? And If this goes 

Out of thy head, I '11 bring it back 

To mind. Down on thy knees, and 

kiss 
The earth and creep out on all fours; 
Go, and don't turn to look behind. 

Aligi: 

Drive over me with plough and harrow, 
Father, but do not touch the woman. 



■J 



Lazaro comes near, unable to contain his 
fury; and, lifting the cord, strikes him 
on the shoulder. 

Lazaro: 

Down, get thee down to the ground, dog, 
down ! 

Aligi falls on his knees. 

Aligi: 

My father, see me ; here I kneel 
Before thee, kneel, and kiss the earth. 
And in the name of the living God 
And true, by my first cry, then when 



[26o] 

I was born to thee and thou didst take 
Me in your hands and lifted me, 
Ere I was wrapped in swaddling bands, 
Up toward the Holy Face of Christ, 
I pray thee, pray thee, father mine; 
Do not so trample under foot 
The heart, the heart of thy sad son, 
Nor give him shame like this. I pray 
Do not put out his light of life, 
Nor throw him to the host of fiends, 
To the enemy that circles round. 
I pray thee by that Angel mute 
That sees and hears there in the block! 

Lazaro: 

Go now, go now, begone, begone. 
And afterward I '11 judge thy case. 
Begone, I say, begone, begone from here. 

He strikes him cruelly with the cord. Aligi 
raises himself all trembling. 

Aligi: 

Now may the Lord be judge, and judge 
Between us two, and see, and do 
Me right; but I, against thee here, 
Father, I will not lift my hand. 



[26l] 

Lazaro: 

Accursed! I will strangle thee! 

He throws the noose to catch Aligi by the 
head, but Aligi avoids the catch, seizes 
the cord and pulls his father with a 
sudden jerk. 

Aligi: 

Lord Christ, do thou give aid to me! 
That I lay not my hands on him, 
That I touch not my father, no! 

Furious, Lazaro runs to the threshold calling. 

Lazaro: 

Ho, Jenne! Ho you, Femo! Come! 
Come, come and see this fellow here. 
How he acts. (May a serpent sting him !) 
Bring here the cord. He is possessed 
For certain. See, he threatens me his 

father! 
He has rebelled against me, he! 
He was accursed in the womb. 
And all his days, accursed forever. 
The devil has entered into him. 
Look at him there. There is no blood 
In his face. Ho, Jenne, take him, thou. 



[262 ] 

Femo, thou hast the cord. So, bind 

him. 
Now bind him fast, and throw him out. 

sfe *tf sb sb *l* *c* ^* 

Brothers in God, don't treat me so! 
Oh, Jenne, do not lose thy soul. 
Jenne, I know thee. I remember 
How when I was a little child 
I used to go and gather olives 
In thy field, Jenne dell' Eta. 
Yes, I remember. Do not, Jenne, 
Do not abuse and shame me so! 

The peasants throw him down and try to 
bind him, dragging him about while he 
becomes furious. 

Dogs! May you die of pestilence! 

No, no, no, Mila, Mila, run. 

Give me that iron there. Mila ! Mila! 

His voice is heard hoarse and desperate, 
while Lazaro prevents Mho's escape. 

Mila: 

Aligi, Aligi, God will help! 

God will avenge! Do not despair. 

I have no power, and thou hast none. 



[263] 

But while my heart Is left to me, 

Aligi, I am thine, am thine! 

Have faith! have faith! For aid will 

come. 
Take heart, Aligi. May God help thee! 

Scene 8 

Mila remains with eyes fixed, and ear 
strained to hear the voices. In the brief truce, 
Lazaro examines the cave, slyly. Far off is 
heard the song of another company of pilgrims 
passing through the valley. 

Lazaro: 

So, woman, thou hast seen how I 
Am master here. I give the law. 
And now thou art alone with me. 
Evening begins, and here, inside, 
'T is almost dark as night. Don't fear, 
Don't be afraid, Mila di Codra. 



'> 



Here in the shepherd's hut thou could'st 
Not have fat pasture. Down below 
Upon the plain thou canst have better, 
For Lazaro di Roio, he 



[264] 

Is well to do, Mila, Is rich! 

What art thou looking at, expecting? 

Mila: 

I look for nothing. No one comes. 

She watches in the hope of seeing Ornella 
appear to save her. She dissimulates 
and temporizes^ seeking to deceive the 
man. 

Lazaro: 

Thou art alone with me. Don't fear. 
Don't fear. Art thou convinced, Mila.'' 

Mila: 

Lazaro di Roio, I am thinking. 

I think what thou didst promise me. — 

I think. But how can I be sure? 

Lazaro: 

Don't shrink away. I will keep my word. 

All that I promise I will do, 

If God will prosper me. — Come here. 

Mila: 

And Candia della Leonessa? 

^£ ^If ^If ^rt ^If ^If 2^ 

And thy three daughters In the house? 



[265] 

Lazaro: 

Come here. Don't doubt me. Here, 

look here: 
I Ve twenty ducats sewed up safe, 
Sewed in this skin. Dost thou want 

them ? 
There, hark! dost thou not hear them 

ring? 
Twenty good ducats of pure silver. 

Mila: 

I want to see them first. I want 
To count them, Lazaro di Roio. 
I '11 take scissors and rip them out. 

Lazaro: 

What dost thou stare at? Witch, for cer- 
tain 

Thou dost plan some trick to cheat me 
here. 

Thou think'st to keep me dallying so. 

He tries to take her. The woman flees into 
the shadow, and takes refuge near the 
walnut block. 

Mila: 

No! No! Let me alone! No! No! 



[266] 

Don't touch me! See! she comes! she 

comes! 
Thy daughter comes! Ornella comes. 

She grasps the Angela despairingly, to resist 
the man's violence. 

No! No! Ornella! Ornella, help! 

Suddenly, at the mouth of the cave, appears 
Aligi, unbound. He sees the confusion 
back in the shadow. He throws himself 
upon his father. He sees where the 
light strikes the walnut block, the hatchet 
still fixed. He brandishes it, blind with 
horror. 

Aligi : 

Let her go, quick, upon thy life! 

He strikes his father dead. Ornella arrives; 
she sees the body stretched at the Angel's 
feet. She gives a great cry. 

Ornella : 

I let him go! I let him go! 



[267] 



ACT III 

A great threshing floor. At the hack an 
old oak, behind it the open country bounded 
by mountains, the river between. At the 
left, the house of Lazaro. The door stands 
wide; under the porch are harvest tools; at the 
right, the hay-loft and straw-rick. 

Scene i 

The corpse of Lazaro lies on the bare 
floor within the house, his head pillowed upon 
a faggot of vine branches, as is the custom. 
The mourners kneel around. Under the 
porch are the kinsfolk with Splendore and 
Favetta. Vienda is seated upon a stone as 
if half dead, comforted by her mother and 
godmother. Ornella stands alone under the 
tree, watching the path. 

The chorus of mourners laments the death 
of Lazaro. Ornella, watching, sees far ofl 
a cloud of dust and a black standard. She 
calls to her sisters to prepare their mother for 



[268] 

what is coming. Femo, one of the peasant 
witnesses, rushing in breathless, brings tidings 
of Aligi, condemned as a parricide, and now 
being led to his mother that he may ask her 
pardon before he dies, and that she may give 
him, as is her right, the cup of comfort. 
Afterward, his hand is to be cut off, and he 
is to be tied in a sack with a mastiff and 
thrown into the river. The muffled roll of 
the funeral drum is heard. Femo tells how 
Aligi confessed his guilt, looking humble 
and innocent, and how the carved angel has a 
spot of blood upon it. The women crowd 
around asking what has become of Mila and 
cursing her. As the chorus of mourners 
breaks forth again, the mother rises from the 
chimney corner where she has been crouching, 
and approaches the door. 

Scene 2 

The mother wanders in her mind, confus- 
ing her sorrows with those of the Blessed 
Virgin. The frightened women kneel in 
prayer. The daughters try to bring their 
mother back. Ornella cries: ^' Mother, Aligi 



[269] 

is coming, Aligi is coming now to ask thy 
forgiveness and to drink the cup of comfort 
from thy hands. Rise, and be strong. He is 
not damned. By repentance and the sacred 
blood he is saved.'''' 

A crowd of people, all the countryside, 
approaches in silence, lona di Midia bear- 
ing the black standard. In the midst is 
Aligi, bound, bare-foot, a black veil over his 
head. They bring with them the angel, the 
leathern sack, and the dog. The kinswomen, 
mourning, tell how to mix the wine with herbs 
to make the cup more stupefying. The voice 
of lona breaks the silence: "0 widow of 
Lazaro, kinsfolk of this stricken household, 
up, up, here comes the penitent''' 

Scene 3 

lona appears with the black standard; 
behind him is Aligi, bound. Following them 
is a man carrying the carved shepherd's 
crook, another with the hatchet, and others 
bearing the angel figure, wrapped in a cloth. 
They set it down. The crowd presses 
close. 



[270] 

The chorus of mourners laments the 
terrible death of Aligi, now so near, the 
cut-off hand J the cord, the sack. lona an- 
nounces the condemnation of Aligi, and tells 
Candia that she may lift the veil and hold 
the cup to the lips of her son, because his 
death will be so bitter. Aligi falls at her 
feet: he may no longer call her mother, he 
will not drink her cup, for his death is no 
more painful than he deserves. The crowd 
looks pityingly upon the mother, grown white- 
haired in two nights. Aligi addresses his 
sisters: he must not speak their names nor 
call them sisters any more. They ought to 
drive him away like a dog. He has two 
things to leave them, the crook on which he 
had carved three little maidens like them, 
that he might have their company out in the 
pastures, and the mute angel he had been 
carving from his heart, now with the awful 
spot upon it. " The spot will disappear some 
day and the mute angel will speak, and you 
will see and hear.^^ The crowd looks pity- 
ingly on the sisters who have no more tears 
to shed. 

Aligi speaks to Vienda, ^^ virgin and 



[271 ] 

widow, whose next marriage shall he in 
Paradise and Christ shall be the bride groom ^ 
The crowd echoes his words. lona hurries 
him, for it grows late, and ''''he must not hear 
the Ave Maria nor see the evening star.^* 
The mother, approaching, lifts the veil from 
Aligi's face, presses his head against her 
breast and holds the cup to his lips. A cry 
is heard from the crowd, interrupting the 
Miserere: ^^ Mila di Codra, the daughter of 
Jorio, the witch of hell, is coming. Let her 
come on; make place. 



>5 



Last Scene 

Mila di Codra rushes in, parting the 
crowd. She calls upon them all to listen. 
Aligi is innocent, she says, it is she who 
killed Lazaro. Aligi does not know this for 
she has bewitched him. She has brought 
many evils upon them all, as the woman 
knows who accused her on the eve of San 
Giovanni. She made Aligi carve a bad 
angel, that one there, covered with the cloth. 
The Saint of the Mountains has turned her 
heart, and has sent her to confess and to save 



[272] 

the innocent. Aligi at first denies all this, 
tells her that she is lying, and calls on Ornella 
to witness. "Do not listen to her. She is 
misleading you. When all of you cried out 
against her on the eve of San Giovanni I saw 
the mute angel behind her. With these 
mortal eyes of mine which must not see again 
the vesper star, I saw it look at me and weep. 
It was a miracle, lona, to show that she is 
of God.'' 

Mila replies: "(9 poor shepherd Aligi, 
youth so credulous and so deceived, the angel 
was apostate. 'Twas a wicked, a false 
angel."" All sign themselves except Aligi 
in his bonds and Ornella who stands apart, 
her eyes fixed upon the voluntary victim. 
Mila tells how, when Aligi came to the fold, 
she made him carve the had angel, that one 
there, covered with the cloth, and how, when 
Lazaro seized her, that night in the dark hut, 
great power came upon her; she drew the 
hatchet from the block, brandished it and 
killed him. The kinsfolk cry out against 
her: " Let her alone, Ornella. Aligi is 
innocent. Take off his bonds, lona. Let 
him go free." The crowd takes up the cry 



[273] 

and adds: " To the flames, to the flames with 
the witch, the daughter of JorioT Mila 
replies: " Yes, yes, righteous people, people 
of God, take vengeance on me. And add to 
the pyre that apostate angel. Let it make 
the fiame to burn me and he consumed with 

Aligi, more and more overpowered by the 
potion, cries out desperately: if it is he who 
heard, who believed, who hoped, who adored 
the wicked angel, let them cut off both his 
hands, and sew him into the sack and cast 
him into the river, that he may sleep seven 
hundred years and never remember how the 
light of God illumined those eyes. Ornella 
cries: ^^ Mila, Mila, it is the mixed wine, 
the cup of comfort that his mother gave him.'' 
Aligi, as he is unbound, calls still more 
wildly on all the dead and the forgotten to 
curse her, and Mila answers with a tortured 
cry: ^^ Aligi, no, not thou. Thou shouldest 
not, thou must not.'' 

Aligi falls in his mother's arms. The 
thongs are put upon Mila, the black veil on 
her head; the black standard is raised once 
more, and she is led away. Ornella calls to 



[274] 

her: ^^Mila, Mila, my sister in Christ, I 
kiss thy feet as they go.^' And Mila, 
from the midst of the mocking throng, is 
heard: " The flame is beautiful, the flame is 
beautiful^ 



EC 13 t9lO 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



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